A Chromatic Progression
by WhyAye
Summary: Lewis thinks he's been roped into helping his boss with a concert at her house. But it turns out to be much more than that when a body is found. And what is Laura keeping from him? Lots of characters borrowed from the series, I don't own them, of course.
1. Chapter 1

Perfect linen, perfect tea, perfect scones: afternoon in a private room of Oxford's finest tearoom. The women gathered there are intelligent and confident. That they know they wield power shows in their faces and in the way they move. The majority is in what statistically would be the second half of life, but in no way can it be said that they are past their prime. They are calm, elegant, sophisticated. Most of them know one another, but not all. The ones who know the greatest number size up the newcomers. Is she one of us? Is she trying to take an advantage where one is not due? Is she someone I should get to know? These women have familiar names, names many men in Oxford would recognize. And they know their own kind. They are the Oxford Area Philanthropic Women.

Jean Innocent smiles an acknowledgement across the room to Dr. Laura Hobson. They have known each other for almost ten years, not a long acquaintance compared to many represented here. Jean recognizes several other women as well. Professor Margaret Gold has been an Oxford don for decades; Naomi Norris is also employed by the university, having already been a well-established librarian at the Bodleian when Jean arrived in Oxford. And Jean knows that, like herself and Laura, many of the women have other, non-university employers or are self-employed, and several don't need employment income to maintain their upscale lifestyles. Trudi Griffon married into money, probably came from it as well. Jessamine Matthews also came from money, enough to fund her art gallery as well as her husband's expensive tastes. Frances Wheeler, although single, has no apparent need for the secure income a regular job provides; her work at the Ashmolean is all voluntary. And Denise Stillman recently retired from a lucrative position in the field of international air transport; her husband, also recently retired, had held a top-drawer position at The Guardian.

Laura Hobson smiles a greeting at Denise when she catches her eye. The pathologist isn't entirely certain what Denise's career involved, but Laura has enjoyed her engaging stories about entertaining Russians in her home and having friends all over the world, and she likes the funny, gracious, and down-to-earth woman. She recognizes the lawyer, Nova Rose, who has raised hackles in the legal community with her vociferous defense of down-and-outs. Laura appreciates the sentiment but is not certain she appreciates Nova's forward and flirtatious demeanor. And although she abhors the smugness that some women bring to these gatherings, that doesn't override the delight she derives from meeting with other women who bash their heads against the glass ceiling, who dominate their professions despite the efforts of men to keep them in the lower echelons, and who share a wicked sense of humor that might be considered inappropriate in certain circles. She smiles to herself as her gaze takes in the roomful.

Professor Gold, one of the group's original organizers, calls the assembly to order. They are here to listen to the needs of several nonprofit groups and to then each award a check in the amount of £100 to the organization considered to be most meritorious, based on popular vote of the assembled women. Given the fact that well over one hundred women are attending the assembly, the meeting will result in the selected group realizing a gain of over £10,000, no small matter to the typically underfunded, philanthropic organizations attending the quarterly get-together of the OAPW.

As Professor Gold introduces the nonprofits that will be making presentations, Laura is bumped by a latecomer.

"Sorry! Mind if I just squeeze in here?" Laura recognizes the speaker from a case a number of years back. A few moments of pinched brow and she places the blonde—the sleep laboratory . . . Kate Something-or-other, the sleep lab director. _Some literary reference . . . Hyde? . . . No, _Jekyll_—Doctor Jekyll_. She recalls the amusement she felt at the name. And she remembers, with a touch of resentment, that the woman had a more-than-usual personal interest in DI Robbie Lewis.

Laura refrains from all of the retorts available to her and simply scoots her chair over a couple of inches, smiling artificially.

"Of course." Then she narrows her eyes. "It's Kate, isn't it? Kate . . . I'm sorry, I'm no good with names." She adds a helpless expression she does not feel. She is, in fact, very good with names.

"Jekyll," her rival supplies.

"Right. Laura Hobson." She smiles as though she means it. But she doesn't. Laura remembers her, alright. _She made a play for Robbie that he rebuffed_. She struggles to keep her true feelings from her expression—disdain with a touch of smugness.

But Kate studies her intensely, at last recognizing the artifice in Laura's smile. "Ah," Kate nods. "You like him." Without explaining whom she means by "him," she dips her gaze a second, then meets Laura's eyes fully. A challenge. _Or knowledge of a private victory?_ Laura has never questioned Robbie about that relationship. Wouldn't presume to do so. Regardless of what happened then, nothing ever developed, and Laura is secure in her supposition that Kate Jekyll is not a part of Robbie's present life.

The tension is dispersed by the interruption of a waitress bringing tea around to all the tables. "Do you need anything?" she asks. The question is not meant as an unlimited invitation to persons who have suffered dissatisfaction but rather a mere inquiry into the supply of milk, sugar, and lemon. The woman smiles conspiratorially. "Last call before the presentations."

* * *

><p>"Now, Darling, do keep your temper." David Cleveland gives a smile he does not himself believe to his girlfriend and lover, Hypatia Banfield-Knight. David lacks sufficient chin to be called handsome, though his large blue eyes provide distraction from this flaw. Hypatia, in contrast, is a stunner, and she is drawing stares and causing men to glare enviously at David as they walk together along Braesnose Lane toward the Radcliffe Camera. They are both in their last year at university, though Hypatia is a year younger than David.<p>

Hypatia walks briskly; it is all David can do to keep up. He is wary of her capacity for fury; he's been the victim of it before. Often, he can cool her down with endearments and promises, and he suspects his coddling of her is what keeps her by his side. But this time he is not successful.

"He's a wanker!" She's shouting at the top of her lungs. "A _fuck_! Whoever strokes him the best, _that's_ who gets his favor!" She glowers, and her voice drops precipitously, giving David a chill. "And despite whatever you might think, I don't wank him."

David has to explore this. "A wanker? He's married, isn't he?"

"Not an absolute bar, you know. But I wouldn't touch him. Nor will I stroke his ego, which is pretty much the same thing as his prick."

David needs to clarify the situation. "So, what did he do to you, Darling?"

She stares, incredulous. "You don't get it, do you?" Seeing his blank response, she continues. "Do you even remember me getting that letter this morning? Do you even—" she inhales deeply—"_remember?_" Her eyes alone could cause grievous bodily harm. They narrow now, lethally.

He fears a physical assault; it's happened before whenever Hypatia is wound up enough. She's cost him a fair amount of blood and even broken one of his toes. Oh, yes, he remembers the letter. And the explosion that followed when Hypatia learned she had not been accepted into the university's graduate study program in music.

"Of course I do, Darling. And it's Bishop's fault you didn't get in? Why would he do that to you? Just because you won't suck him or something? Can't be; he's never even asked you. It's obvious you're being snubbed because your talent threatens him." He's guessing though. Walter Bishop, senior fellow of music—department chairman, even—is, according to Hypatia, thoroughly susceptible to the sexual bung. David is skeptical, but wants nothing less than to disagree with the livid young woman walking by his side.

When she doesn't answer, he turns his head to study her. Eyes narrowed, lips thin, hands balled into fists. Predatorial. He shivers.

"Someone should take him out," she mutters, barely audible. Then her eyes snap to his, and he is helpless to defend himself by looking away.

"If you _really_ loved me, David, you'd prove it. You'd take care of that bastard." Her stare is intended to ensure that he receives her meaning.

"You mean . . ." David swallows. Twice. "_Kill_ him?"

"Would you make me do it myself?" Hypatia's eyes bore into his, but her lips form a wolfish grin, complete with small, pointed teeth. "Do you love me?" She places his hand on her right breast and pulls his mouth to hers, hungry in more than one way.

Breathless, he ignores her incongruous question. He knows what he has to do.

* * *

><p>The office of DI Robert Lewis and DS James Hathaway is studiously quiet. The two men work at their desks, James clicking around his computer and Robbie reviewing paperwork. Things are winding up on a Friday afternoon, and both men are hoping for a quiet weekend.<p>

There's a light rapping on the door, and their supervisor, Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent, steps into the office without waiting for an invitation.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen." She smiles brightly. Lewis shoots a glance at Hathaway before turning his attention to the Chief Super. _This will be trouble_, is the look the younger man reads.

She continues warmly. "Robbie, I need you to do me a huge favor tomorrow. I'm a member of a charitable women's group in town and tomorrow is the annual progressive piano concert that we co-sponsor with the university's music department." Seeing his brow pinch, she explains.

"You've heard of progressive dinners, haven't you?"

He squints one eye. "That's where you have starters at one house, then the next course at another house, and so on until you get to pudding or else until everyone is too drunk to drive, whichever comes first, right?"

She looks bemused. "Precisely. Only this is a progressive piano concert. At each venue, different pieces are played and nibbles and drinks are served. There are four concert sites in all, and my house is one of them." She continues without giving either of them the chance to interrupt. "Mister Innocent has been called out of town unexpectedly and unavoidably, and—" she ignores the dismay that washes over Lewis's face as he anticipates what will come next "—hosting the concert is a daunting enough task for two people, and nearly impossible for one."

Robbie inhales and exhales, both deeply. "And why are you telling me this?"

"I need someone to help me tomorrow, and I am hoping you'll be kind enough to do so."

"What about Hathaway?"

"I thought he might like to attend the concert, whereas, if you don't help me, I imagine you'll spend the time closeted away by yourself, doing whatever it is you do when you're alone on the weekends."

"I happen to _like_ being closeted away by meself."

She cocks her head, looking at him with a cross between pleading and ordering. "Well?"

He sighs. Despite his outward protest, he secretly rather delights in being dragged to things he knows he will enjoy but can't overcome his own inertia enough to go on his own. It was only during the last few years he had worked with Morse that he finally learned this about himself. But he will never admit it, even if pressed.

"Well, maybe I'm thinking about going, taking a guest along or something."

Her eyes narrow menacingly, her mouth in a line. "Laura's hosting, too; she won't be able to attend as a concertgoer."

Lewis clenches, knowing he's been caught all around. Innocent has the grace to look away, to look as though she'd almost accepted his excuse as truthful.

He heaves a big sigh. Lewis knows when to fold 'em, in the words of the song. He doesn't stand a chance against Innocent in this matter.

"Tell me what I need to do, Ma'am." Resigned.

* * *

><p>"So, you're going to this concert thing because you want to?" Lewis is unable to keep the incredulity from his voice. They are sitting in the Trout, sipping pints after a long week's work.<p>

"It'll be nice." Hathaway snaps a smirky grin at Lewis. "I think I'll enjoy myself. I've heard that the music can be quite good. The pianists are a mix of professionals and student participants from last year's competition." He notes Lewis's blank look. "It's a contest sponsored jointly by the university music department and the OAPW. This concert is a fundraiser for next year's competition's prize money. The students range widely in age. There are some seven-year-olds competing who have more knowledge of classical music than you do, Sir."

Lewis turns away with a snort. He's done with Hathaway's smug wind-up and superior attitude, but he declines making an express challenge. _Sod him. Always with the "Sir" when he's being mean_.

James feels a bit chastised. He didn't intend to be hurtful; no way did he expect Lewis to have so little self-confidence about his more-than-adequate grasp of classical music. And he recognizes that, by turning away rather than retorting, Lewis has dialed down the potential confrontation between them. He touches Lewis's elbow for a half-second. "Sorry, Sir. You ready for another round?"

Robbie's eyes flick to him, discerning his credibility. Satisfied, he nods, once. They are right again.

* * *

><p>They aren't the only ones thinking about the concert. Less than a mile away, in a clutttered and dimly lit narrowboat, an aging but still rakishly handsome man leans back in a comfortable chair and spreads open the evening's newspaper. He is dressed in a rather worn, green crewneck jumper, the collar of a blue shirt peeking from underneath; smudged chino trousers; and hard-soled moccasins, without socks. He pages through the paper slowly, then peers closely to read the small print of an announcement describing a piano concert. Four sequential venues are identified. The first is the University's Holywell Music Room; the other three are private homes. The man smiles to himself, takes a long swig directly from a half-empty bottle of cheap gin, belches quietly, and rubs a hand over his bristled chin. He recognizes one of the hosting homeowners' names. His hand slides down his neck, over the front of his jumper, and settles on his groin. <em>So Laura Hobson is opening her home to the public.<em> Alec Pickman's smile widens as he chuckles aloud, and his hand begins to move with a slow rhythm, fondling the folds of his trousers. _A piano concert might be very pleasureable_.


	2. Chapter 2

"Promise me, love, you'll be careful what you say to the press?" Claire Beswick smiles fondly at her husband to let him see she is half joking. Her clear, unwrinkled skin has a glow that nearly conceals the fact that she is rapidly nearing forty, though she has taken on some weight since marrying her former mentor, Walter Bishop, who is some twenty-four years her senior. Both of the internationally renowned pianists are dons in the University's music department; when faced with the choice of hiring both together or hiring neither, well, the search committee members felt there really was only one way their decision could go. No one has ever since regretted the decision; the couple behaves impeccably, bringing some of the finest music scholarship to the University that has been seen in decades and drawing far more student applicants than the department can handle. And although Walter is frequently, but never conclusively, linked via the rumor-mill (and occasionally the press) to students in what could politely be called "inappropriate" ways, Claire remains devoted to him, and he to her.

But her devotion comes at an effort few people know about. She is almost certain Walter would never actually cheat on her, and would never commit a criminal sexual act, but she finds it necessary to monitor him constantly because he can't help flirting and touching in ways that bear more than a whiff of unsuitable conduct. He is tall, well built, and has a classically handsome face with high, Nordic cheekbones and a strong, cleft chin; women seem irresistibly drawn to his charm and good looks. Claire checks each touch, each close seating arrangement, each welcoming kiss, and every appraising look he gives the female students, critics, teachers, and performers. Bishop's conduct has been misread in the past; two potential civil lawsuits were settled rather expensively out of court, and one criminal complaint was considered but declined by the Crown Prosecutor.

Bishop smiles warmly at his wife. He adores her; that cannot be doubted. "Of course, my love. All those young girls about, some of those damned reporters are bound to be thinking naughty thoughts. I'll be _very_ careful." He hugs her with one arm, and kisses the top of her head.

She can't hide her pleasure at his affection, and smiles broadly. "It's not the rumors about the young ones I'm worried about."

He cocks his head, questioningly, and she drops her voice.

"It's Marietta."

He doesn't meet her eyes. "Ah." Then, "What can they say that hasn't already been said a hundred times?"

Claire doesn't answer. Marietta Romayne, an internationally celebrated pianist, is their dearest friend and has been so for years. Initially a student of Walter's, her friendship with Claire blossomed shortly after Claire and Walter's wedding. She has played duets with each of them, but the astonishing chemistry and musicianship when she plays duets with Walter has started tongues wagging more than once in the past. And although Marietta will be playing four-hands pieces with each of them for the progressive concert, and although Walter has come home short of breath and somewhat pink-faced after what seem to have been some very intense practice sessions with Marietta, Claire is _nearly_ certain there is nothing between them. But lately, Walter has been spending a great deal of time on the telephone with Marietta, closing the door to his study to keep the conversations private. Claire can't help wondering if she is about to lose her dear, undisciplined husband after all this time. She sets her mouth, determined not to give him up without a fight. Then, when she sees him studying her, she smiles at him, without saying anything.

* * *

><p>Hathaway blinks in surprise to see his inspector approaching the concert hall, looking rather smart in a black suit, crisp white shirt, and emerald green tie. He himself made some effort to look nice for the concert, choosing one of his darker grey suits, a pale lavender shirt, and black and purple tie.<p>

"I thought Innocent would have you under lock and key, setting out cakes and opening wine and such."

Lewis rolls his eyes. "She had me there all morning. There's absolutely nothing left to do but sit around and wait. She said I could leave, but only if I came here and didn't stay to eat afterwards."

James nods approvingly. "It'll be good for you, I'm sure." Lewis scowls at him as they enter the hall.

Holywell Music Room is a genteel, civilized venue for what Hathaway suspects is, in fact, very dirty, street-rules-type, hand-to-hand combat. "Hand-to-hand" literally, for although tonight is not a contest for cash prizes, the fingering and interpretative skills of the students from last year's competition are featured in the evening's presentation, and the audience is dotted with anonymous benefactors, mentors, and virtuosi, any of which might see someone worthy of being taken under a wing or offered special support. Hathaway knows that for these students, a great deal will be on offer if they can perform at their best. He pities every last one of them.

He is standing at the back of the hall, leaning his weight against the wall beside his senior officer. Although Hathaway studies the crowd, Lewis isn't looking at the faces. He has already scanned them and recognizes—and can name—a significant number of them. He doesn't forget names and faces. Instead, he studies Hathaway, noting a tension underlying his expressionless features. When Lewis sees Hathaway tighten, he moves his eyes to align them with his sergeant's gaze, and sees nearby a young mother adjusting the hair of a very dressed-up young girl. The mother's mouth forms a hard line, and she is scowling as she tugs at a bow. The girl looks detached, her fingers rapidly tapping out soundless music on her skirt as though there is an invisible keyboard grafted onto her thigh. Lewis scowls, too. He wants to hug the little girl and tell her to go run and play outside. He gets the feeling she is skipping her childhood in order to make the most of her musical talent. It is a feeling that saddens him a great deal.

Then Lewis is distracted by a flurry of activity and raised-yet-hushed voices to his right. Another overdressed girl is on the verge of tears. She is older, fifteen or sixteen, he guesses, and she seems to be in disagreement with an older man—her father? Lewis remembers seeing the girl earlier, when she was flirting rather suggestively with a boy about her own age, and after a quick check of the venue, he locates the boy handing out programs to incoming audience members and glancing longingly at the girl. The father bends near the girl's ear but his hissed admonition is clear enough for Lewis to hear:

"You will behave like a lady, Giselle! That boy isn't worth the dirt on your shoe! After tonight, I assure you, you'll never see him again." Lewis wonders at the astonishing level of threat he reads into that last sentence.

She makes a face at her father's back after he turns to find a seat. But before he does, he stops in front of the lad with the programs and jabs a finger into the boy's skinny chest.

"Don't you _dare_ touch her." The father assesses the intended reaction and decides it is insufficient. He pulls the boy to him roughly, by the shoulder, and spits something into his ear. Then he strides away to find a seat. The boy looks severely shaken.

Lewis catches Hathaway watching, too, and their eyes lock for a moment, the contact sufficient to convey paragraphs of meaning.

Walter Bishop stands at the front, welcoming the audience and explaining that, although there is no charge for the concert, donations are welcome and will be used for the corpus of the prize money awarded at the annual competition. The crowd murmurs receptively, but Lewis's attention is distracted by a late arrival, a somewhat rumpled man hurrying to find a seat in the hall.

"What the hell is _he_ doing here?" Lewis sputters at his sergeant.

Hathaway tracks Lewis's gaze. "Isn't that . . ." he pinches his eyes shut a moment, willing the name to his tongue. "Alec Pickman? Laura Hobson's former housemate?" A glance at Lewis gives him his answer. He watches as Alec scans the crowd as though looking for someone, a bit frustrated, then he checks behind himself and sees the two detectives standing against the wall. Alec grins at Lewis and touches two fingers to his brow in a mock salute, then spreads the two fingers into a V and flips them in Robbie's direction.

Hathaway feels more than sees Robbie lurch forward, and he lays a hand on the older man's shoulder, restraining him subtly but firmly.

"Not worth it, Sir." James mutters under his breath. Lewis checks, looks sharply at James, and physically backs down. James hears Lewis exhale loudly, sharply, and without the verbalization he so wishes to impart.

"I know, Sir," Hathaway adds, needlessly. Lewis just gives him a look.

Celeste Dartaigne, the seven-year-old with the hairbows, marches without hesitation to the piano to begin the concert. Her legs are so short that she requires what could best be described as "booster pedals" that enable her to access the Steinway's full capabilities. She offers a technically accomplished performance of Chopin's _Nocturne in C-sharp minor_. When she is done, she bows neatly in recognition of the applause and strides purposefully to the rear of the hall and up to her waiting mother. The woman stares at the back wall of the hall, and Lewis can hear her comment.

"That was terrible." The mother turns away. Celeste bites her lip, and Lewis assumes she must have made a mistake somewhere in her performance, though he did not hear it. Yet he cannot help but concur in the mother's analysis: the performance was terrible. Technically perfect, or close enough, but utterly soulless, to his admittedly untrained ear. He notices Hathaway breathing deeply as though trying to control something within himself that is proving difficult to restrain.

At last, James chokes out a question.

"What did you think, Sir?"

Lewis inhales, knowing his assessment of the musicality of her performance is only part of what he needs to provide.

"I find it a bit . . . what's the term? pushing credibility? to imagine a seven-year-old understanding the . . . pain?—maybe _desolation_ is the word I want—anyway, whatever that sadness is that the music wants to convey. At least, not _this_ seven-year-old." He checks. "If I'm making any sense a-tall," he concludes, modestly.

Hathaway raises an eyebrow appreciatively. But then Lewis's attention is captured by Celeste, brushing past her father as he tries to offer a hug, swallowing nonexistent tears, and setting her jaw firmly.

"_Don't_, Daddy," he just barely hears her say. "I was terrible."

Lewis glances up at James, who looks away rather suddenly, his own jaw tensing.

"No pain there," the younger man says acidly. Then Hathaway pulls back from his hostile approach, and continues in a milder tone.

"But you're right; she's too inexperienced to suss the nuances of that piece; at least, not to my satisfaction." He averts his eyes.

Lewis finds the tone of James's comment very informative, and he, too, averts his gaze to appear not to be prying. But he's also learned from what Hathaway _hasn't_ said—and hasn't needed to say, given the context. Lewis had been blissfully unaware of pain at that age, but he has since learned that not everyone had such a privileged upbringing. He's now quite certain his sergeant has considerable personal experience in that; and he increasingly appreciates what is, and is not, a truly "privileged" upbringing.

* * *

><p>Giselle Rouche performs next. Lewis recognizes her as the one who had the bit of a row with her father before the concert began. During Celeste's performance, she had been sitting next to her father, albeit with a calculated distance between them. Now she strides briskly to the front, her movements ungraceful and jerky.<p>

Her performance cannot be divorced from her mood, and Hathaway notices Lewis flinching when she harshly nails a note home. When her execution (and Lewis cannot help but think this is the entirely appropriate word) of the _allegro_ from Mozart's _Sonata in D major_ is complete, she returns to sit in the audience, but not with her father. She sits next to the boy she had been flirting with earlier, but he stands up as soon as she is seated, and heads for the piano on the platform.

Giselle's apparent boyfriend is listed in the program as Cameron Priestley, and his style on the Brahms _Intermezzo_ he attempts seems overly smooth, overly melodic. _Dreamy_ is how it seems to Robbie, who lacks more specific descriptors.

When Lewis catches Hathaway's cocked eyebrows and knows an assessment is due, he puffs out his cheeks, exhales, and provides, "A bit . . . erm, _formless_; is that the right word?"

Hathaway manages to turn his genuine smile of appreciation into a half-smirk:

"Y'know, I may have underestimated you, Sir."

Lewis narrows one eye, and twists a quiet retort: "People often do."

He turns away then, missing Hathaway's knowing, nodded smile, but nonetheless aware it is there.

Hypatia Banfield-Knight follows Cameron, and she plays a selection from Albeniz's brilliant _Iberia Suite_. David Cleveland turns pages for her, and by shifting his position along the wall a bit, Lewis can see the complexity of the music, notes swooping up and down the page, so many that the score shows three staffs at times. But despite the piece being so technical, the warmth of Spanish folk music comes through. David beams at her the entire time, basking in her accomplishment as though it somehow implicates his own skills. Hypatia is excellent, as Lewis verifies with a glance at Hathaway while they are applauding her performance.

Then there is a pause in the music while a second piano is brought out for the remainder of the set, and Walter reminds everyone that voluntary donations are welcome, and that refreshments will be served after the concert.

Next up is a four-hands duet by Debussy, _Petite Suite_, played by Marietta and Walter, which they execute stunningly. There can be little doubt that the duo is perfectly paired; either would be lost without the other, and together, they form something more powerful than the sum of the parts. It is the zenith of art exceeding math; a synergy of two people producing something bordering on genius, far beyond what either of them could do, alone. The music leaves each member of the audience breathless, yet invigorated. It can only be described as astonishing.

Lewis claps enthusiastically as the couple bows to the applause. The performance has triggered thoughts of symbiosis, of what he was like with Val; how the two of them jointly could create something more powerful than either of them singly. The music made him feel the same way he used to feel when he and Val did something together that amazed them both: the first time they made love . . . the birth of each of their children . . . celebrating their 20th anniversary . . . . He finds that his eyes have become blurry and he has to dab at them with his fingers. He averts his face so Hathaway won't see what he's doing, though in this respect, he's not as effective as he thinks.

Then two more pianists come out on stage: Claire and Giselle. Cameron Priestley is also on stage; he is one of the page turners, handling the music for Walter and Giselle, while an east-Asian lad Lewis does not recognize is working the page-turns for Claire and Marietta. Lewis knows it's an honor for a student of Giselle's standing to be playing with the other three professionals, and he takes it as a sign that she is probably more accomplished than her earlier performance indicated.

But as the piece, _Spanish Dances_, winds on, he is less convinced this is the case; Giselle makes technical errors that even Lewis can spot, and she seems to be visibly struggling with the music. He is reminded of his earlier thoughts of symbiosis. _Maybe Giselle needs Cameron_, he thinks. And he wonders whose decision it was to make her the fourth member of the quartet.

Claire keeps an eye on Walter, how close he sits next to Giselle, and Hathaway notices a lot of friction among the performers, little looks between people. Cameron seems to be almost strutting, Claire fussing, Giselle basking, Walter and Marietta oblivious, lost in the music.

The piece is less than perfect. Nonetheless, applause is hearty and generous at the conclusion, and the guests slowly drain from the seats toward the nibbles and wine prepared for them in the gathering area.

Cameron manages to find Giselle in the back of the concert hall without her father noticing, having waited until most everyone has moved out to find the food. He grabs her suggestively around the waist, but she is not interested in his affections. She pushes him back, staring fixedly into his eyes:

"Was I good?"

"Yeah, a'course."

She snorts, but he defends both his opinion and his physical position, sliding one hand down to cup her bottom, nudging her toward himself, despite the several people who are still around, including two inconspicuously observant detectives.

"You were . . . really . . . _impressive_." He can tell this is not buying anything, so he pushes on.

Y'know, about halfway through, I noticed," he leans in and whispers, "Bishop had this huge hard-on."

She snorts again, "No way, Cammo," but Lewis can hear the pleasure in her denial, and he suspects "Cammo" is closer to describing his own condition than that of Walter Bishop's during the performance.

Cameron continues, "I mean it, Giselle. If your playing can arouse men like that, you've _got_ to get a scholarship. They'll have to give you one! You know, kind of a quid pro quo for services rendered." He smirks, but with affection.

She reddens and mock-slaps him, but is clearly lapping up the idea that her playing gives men sexual pleasure. Lewis casts a glance at Hathaway: they both know the signs of a man making a play for a woman, even when it is far better disguised than this.

Hathaway, breaking his attention from the passionate couple, heads for the gathering room with its promised refreshments. Nothing stronger than wine is on offer, and the labels are predictable. Still, as a recognizable "best buy," it's not an offensive swill, James thinks, as he downs a glass of Chardonnay. The food is not much more than nuts and biscuits, so he gives that a pass. Hathaway notices Alec Pickman taking advantage of several glasses of wine. Pickman sees him and smiles smugly.

Lewis, however, remains in the concert hall with Giselle and Cammo, pressed against the back wall as though it will disguise him, if need be. Suddenly, movement catches his eye: Giselle's father, unseen by them, enters swiftly, eyes blazing in anger, glaring at Cammo.

Unaware of the danger he might be in, Cameron continues his wooing of Giselle: "Of course, if that perv Bishop ever lays a hand on you—or rubs you with that erection of his—I'll have to fucking kill him." He cracks a predatory grin, and she kisses him wetly for his bravado. Then she gasps: "I've got to get on to the next place!"

She scampers out, and Lewis sees her father back down a bit, but he can tell the man's anger is not assuaged. He presses toward Cameron, who sees the danger too late and winces as the man grabs his arm.

"I warned you to stay away from her!" he hisses at the boy. Then he sneers, "What did you mean about Walter Bishop?"

The boy's eyes dart from side to side as he recognizes a possible means of escape, and he thinks a moment. "Well, they were playing, and I was right there, turning pages, and Professor Bishop . . . erm, he was," he coughs in embarrassment, ". . . aroused by Giselle being so close to him. He kept glancing down the front of her dress and moving closer to her. When we went out, he put his hand on her . . . erm, on her rear end. He, y'know, likes young girls." Lewis can see he is deciding how much more to invent.

But he has said enough to redirect Giselle's father, who releases Cameron and looks around for Bishop. Robbie does too, and spots him surrounded by friends and admirers as he heads out of the hall. He's safe from the angry man for the moment, and as Lewis relaxes, he notes with curiosity that Bishop is carrying what looks like a doctor's medical bag. _What's that all about?_

Glancing at his watch, Robbie hurries from the concert hall to the reception area, surprised at all the food and wine spread out on tables. But since he needs to report to Jean Innocent's house in short order, Lewis ignores the tables, concentrating on finding his sergeant.

Similarly checking around the crowd to find his inspector, Hathaway locates him first and notices that Lewis is also scanning the audience members, not quite frantically, but with more of a fervor than someone who simply wants to see who is attending.

Hathaway sidles up and bends toward Lewis's ear.

"She's not here."

The older man whirls around, startled. "I was looking for _you_, as a matter of fact. Who did you think?" He realizes who James meant as soon as the words leave his lips, and he rolls his eyes.

Hathaway smirks. "Laura Hobson's probably busy setting up at her house. I thought you were looking for her."

"Well, I wasn't. I was trying to find you to let you know I'm off for Jean's." He frowns at the floor, as though there were something amiss there. Then he snaps his head up sharply, giving the impression that he thinks catching Hathaway unawares will result in a more candid answer.

"Why is it Laura Hobson can manage just fine on her own, but Jean requires me to help her not only during the concert at her house but for the entire morning before and probably a good hour after?"

Hathaway merely cocks his eyebrows, smiles enigmatically, and shrugs.

But the older man seems concerned about something. "You'll be there, right? At Laura's?" James realizes it's as though Lewis doesn't trust the fates to allow nothing to go wrong in the absence of his personal oversight.

Hathaway nods and restrains an indulgent smile. His eye contact tells Lewis, _Yes, I'll make sure everything at Laura's happens as it should_. But James keeps his internal giggles to himself. "We'll all meet up at the Stillmans' at the end, right?"

Lewis exhales, as though this entire night is trying his patience. Then he meets James's eyes with resignation.

"Right." He pauses a moment. "Y'know, James, that other girl that played here, Giselle?"

Hathaway nods.

"Keep an eye on her. Her father seems to be a bit overeager to clobber someone. I'd hate for the concert to turn into a bloodsport. More than it already is, at least." He half-smiles.

Hathaway can't resist getting in the last word. "You're actually enjoying this, aren't you, Sir?"

Lewis only shoots him a look that expresses exasperation and at the same time confirms James's suspicions, and heads for the door.


	3. Chapter 3

When he arrives at the Chief Super's house, Robbie is surprised to see some guests are already there. He sets his face in what he hopes is a very apologetic expression and approaches the hostess.

"Sorry I'm late, I got stuck in a bit of melodrama at Holywell. I didn't realize people might come straight here." He glances toward the food table, around which the early guests hover, plates in hand. "Food comes first here?"

Jean smiles indulgently, trapped in Gracious Hostess mode. "It's no trouble, Robbie, everything is ready, thanks to all your help. And yes, at the houses, the food comes both before and after the music so people can time it the way they like."

Lewis approaches the table, noticing for the first time the variety available to the guests. _Jean's really worked hard on this, it all looks very tempting_. But as acting host, he won't eat anything until after the guests are gone, and he veers away from the table. He spots someone he recognizes and goes over when she smiles at him.

"Inspector Lewis, how lovely to see you again."

"Professor Gold," he nods. "Are you part of Jean's women's group? The O . . . whatever it is?" He blushes slightly at his own stumbling.

"The OAPW, yes, I was one of the founding members." She nods a greeting to Walter Bishop as he passes by to check out the food table.

Lewis seizes the opportunity for enlightenment. "Professor . . . what is that bag Professor Bishop carries?" He nods toward it.

She smiles, knowing the answer. "Oh, that. It's piano equipment. Keyboard parts, hammers, wire, tuning wrenches, spare felt, spare support pegs for the lid, that sort of thing. Once, years ago, there was some sort of disaster with one of the host's pianos, you see, and Walter has been prepared ever since. I believe he's even had the opportunity to use it once or twice." She smiles conspiratorially. Over her shoulder, Lewis sees the crowd has grown considerably and some of the dishes need replenishing.

"If you'll just excuse me, Professor, I need to help Jean before I get a scolding." She smiles and he hurries to the kitchen. When he returns to the table, Hathaway nods a greeting and approaches.

"Nice house, Mister Innocent."

Lewis pulls a face, as he knows is expected. "You should give yourself a tour. Innocent said any room with the door standing open is fair game. The library is nice, and the bathroom is huge. Fit me whole flat in it, I should think."

"Thanks, I think I will." He pours himself a glass of wine first, and looks around the gathered people.

"Lots of your old girlfriends here, I see."

"_What?_"

"Here comes one now."

He recognizes Professor Frances Woodville, and smiles warmly in greeting. "Professor Woodville, nice to see you."

"_Frances_, please, Robbie! I never expected to see _you_ here!" To his surprise, she leans in and kisses his cheek.

Turning slightly pink, he waves toward Jean. "Ah, well, I'm here because of Jean."

Her face falls. "Oh, I see. Sorry if I . . . Anyway, it's lovely to see you again." She hurries away, leaving Lewis puzzled and James highly amused.

"Well, that was odd, I can't imagine—What's so funny, Sergeant?"

"She thinks you meant you're _with_ Innocent, y'know, boyfriend-girlfriend." James can't keep from giggling.

"Aw, for the love of—_Seriously?_" But he can see for himself that Hathaway is spot-on. Shaking his head, he goes back to his host duties, clearing out empty wine bottles from the drinks table and checking to make sure there are still enough that are open. He does his best to ignore Alec Pickman, who empties a bottle into his glass, and then raises it toward Lewis as if toasting him. A couple of the reds are getting low, so he opens up replacements and takes them to the kitchen to breathe.

Hathaway notices another female acquaintance of Lewis's follow him into the kitchen, and he considers going to spy. But his attention is diverted when he overhears a hissed conversation occurring around the corner from where he is standing. He realizes he can see who it is by watching the reflection in the large glass window opposite him. It is Hypatia, the piano student, and the man who had turned pages for her. She appears to be very angry.

"That bastard said _nothing_ to me at Holywell, and that's the best I've ever played that piece. If you don't do something about him, David, I'll do it myself, I swear I will."

"C'mon, darling, Bishop's just a self-centered old goat. There are people at this concert who can take you so much further than he can. So try to stay calm and do your best, alright? I promise you, you'll get what you want."

In the reflection, Hathaway can see the sly smile spread across her face, and the window's distortion, combined with the ruby red of her lipstick, turns her mouth into a bloody gash. He shivers.

* * *

><p>Lewis turns when he hears a quiet cough behind him.<p>

"Hello, Bertie." He remembers Nova Rose, her invented nickname for him, and her flirtatious manner, and he smiles.

"Hello, Nova."

She saunters closer, _too close_, he thinks, but he bumps up against the refrigerator and there is nowhere for him to go.

"You look good in a kitchen," she says, huskily, taking hold of him by threading an arm through his. Her red dress is low-cut and she's so close he could see right down into it, if he were to look. Her breath smells of wine as she exhales hotly on his lips. "I like a man in the kitchen."

"Well, I'm just—y'know." He suddenly feels flustered.

She presses her body up against his and whispers into his ear. "_Are you good in the kitchen, Bertie?_" He feels her hand groping the front of his trousers, and at first he wonders if she knows what she's touching. But her fingers close on him, and he swallows. _Oh yes, she knows_.

"Erm, Nova . . ."

When her lips start to suck at his neck, his panic accelerates.

But there's a sudden throat clearing, and a male voice from the kitchen doorway: "Oh, sorry! Didn't mean to interrupt anything."

Nova slithers away from Robbie, grinning like a cat. "Saved by the Sergeant, eh, Bertie? Too bad, a few more minutes and I think I would have had you responding nicely." She winks at Hathaway as she flounces out of the room, high heels clicking like a metronome.

James is about to smirk, but he sees Lewis's expression and concern takes over. "Sir? Are you alright?"

"God, and here I thought she was harmless." He's breathing hard. He sees James's inquisitive look but isn't about to go into detail. "Let's just say I could have her arrested for that."

Hathaway nods toward the wine. "Maybe a glass of that wouldn't hurt. Oh, and . . ." He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes at Robbie's neck. The inspector jerks away, confused.

"It's lipstick, Sir. On your neck. If you'll just let me? I don't think it would do for you to go out there like this."

With this explanation, Lewis nods his acquiescence. But he fidgets during the process, like a restless schoolboy getting his hair combed, and with a mumbled "_Thanks_," he gets back to his hosting duties as soon as James finishes.

Hathaway wanders back out to the main room, where the furniture has mostly been moved to the side and rows of chairs have been set up to face the piano. He inspects the instrument. It's another Steinway, not a full-size concert grand, but not the smallest size either, and he realizes just how big the room is to accommodate it and the chairs without it all feeling cramped. He senses someone behind him, and he moves away, turning at the same time to see Celeste and her parents there.

"I don't _want_ to try it out, Mother," the little girl is saying, "I tried it out yesterday at rehearsal and it's _fine_."

Her mother isn't ready to give in. "You need to do your best, Dear. This is very important. _Very_ important. For all of us."

The girl says nothing but pulls out the bench. Hathaway hurries away before he is unable to hold his tongue. Lewis sees him turn to an overstuffed wingback chair next to him and punch it, twice. Then he strides over to the door to the garden, fishing in his jacket pocket and pulling out his cigarettes, and he goes out swiftly.

"Something wrong with our Sergeant?" It's Jean; she's come up next to Robbie.

"I think he's uncomfortable with the performing monkey aspect of child prodigies."

She studies him, glad that he at least has the sense to keep his voice low. "Well, Robbie, it would be my guess that he may have experienced something similar when he was a child." She looks directly at his eyes. "I expect you did not." Before he can take enough offense to retort, she adds, "And I think that probably means yours was the happier childhood." Her eyes widen meaningfully, and Lewis bites back his own defensiveness, softening his stance and nodding slowly.

"I suspect you're right, Ma'am," he says, quietly.

* * *

><p>Beyond of the glare of the outdoor light, Hathaway leans against the house, smoking a cigarette and trying to wall off his personal feelings from the evening. It's not easy these days to make one's way in the world, and if a child has an extraordinary talent, who's to say that it's not better to flog it than to let it erode away to nothingness. At last he stubs out the end of the fag, digging it into the dirt with the toe of his shoe. But he's not ready to go back in yet; with all the people, the house seems stuffy, overheated in more ways than one. He blows out his cheeks, remembering how shaken Robbie was after Nova Rose assaulted him. He can hear Jean announce that the concert will soon begin, but before he moves to go back in, the door opens and a pair of bodies fairly tumbles out, giggling and laughing.<p>

"I mean, what other guy my age can say they've _done_ someone, right?"

Hathaway recognizes Giselle Rouche and Cameron Priestley as the lad pulls from his pocket what to James looks very much like a marijuana joint. But when Giselle turns, still giggling, her eye catches a glimpse of a man leaning against the wall.

"Cammo, there's someone _there_!" She hisses in warning.

Hathaway detaches himself from the house and steps into the light. The two teenagers adopt identical, sneering expressions.

"Did you know your host and hostess at this house are police officers?" He asks airily.

They seem unimpressed with this information.

"And so am I."

"So?" Giselle challenges.

James tries a different approach. "Giselle, does your father know you smoke dope?"

The girl pales to an ashy grey. "I . . . I _don't_. Is . . . is that what this is? You're trying to get me in trouble!" She stares accusingly at Cammo, who flinches at the betrayal.

But Hathaway isn't fooled by her performance. "I think you'd both better go back inside," he says, holding his hand out for the joint, his voice turned to ice.

Cameron hands it over, and the three of them go back in together, just as Celeste is sitting down to play.

James finds a spot on the back wall and leans his shoulders and backside against it. Lewis slides in next to him, and sets a hand on Hathaway's arm.

"You alright?"

Hathaway looks at him, surprised. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just needed a smoke."

"Right." The inspector looks thoroughly unconvinced.

Celeste again plays the Chopin. Lewis thinks to himself it could be a recording of her earlier performance: every single note, as far as he can tell, is absolutely identical. When she is done, Giselle starts for the piano. Hathaway turns to Robbie.

"Interesting dynamic between her, her boyfriend, and her father." He tells Lewis about what happened in the garden.

Lewis shakes his head in disbelief. "These musicians . . . All that beautiful music, but nothing is pure about them, is it? They're all . . . I don't know, tainted somehow? Am I being naïve?" He sees James's look, and adds, "_Again_, I mean? And what do you think Cameron meant by 'doing someone'? Sex?"

Hathaway is thoughtful. "Doesn't it also mean to murder someone?"

Lewis only responds with an expression of dismay.

"Ooh, murder, maybe I've stepped in at the wrong moment." Robbie looks up to see a familiar face at his side.

"Ah, hello, Kate. Are you part of this women's group, too?" He remembers Kate Jekyll from his first case after he'd returned to Oxford. At the time, he'd thought he fancied her, but he hadn't let anything ever develop between them. What he had really liked was the distraction from his grief and the simple, warm attention she paid him. When she had pressed for more, he drew back; the thought of intimacy had been far too painful then.

She slides her arm through his and beams at him. "Of course. Anyone who's anyone is in the OAPW." She checks at his look. "If you're a woman, I mean," she chuckles.

Lewis studiously ignores the scrutiny Hathaway is giving him. "Is it a good group, then? Nice people?"

She purses her lips, considering her answer carefully. "It does good things. Not only for the charities, but also it's a good means of networking." _Not exactly answering my questions_, he thinks.

Kate makes a show of looking around. "Isn't Laura Hobson here?"

He's on guard with this tack. "Laura's hosting the next site, she can't be here."

"Oh," is her simple reply. Then, "And you're not helping her get ready? I thought you two were an item."

His surprised expression is enough to satisfy her, but she is glad to hear him protest.

"Laura and I are old friends, that's all." Hathaway detects that _Back off!_ tone Lewis tends to use whenever this subject comes up.

"Oh, I see." And then, "That's nice." She rests her head on his shoulder, while James smothers a snigger. Lewis looks as though he very much wishes he were somewhere else.

Giselle's performance is spotless this time, the Schumann _Reveries_, graceful and tender. Cameron turns pages for her, though it looks as though she's not using the score but has learned the music by heart. Lewis sees her father staring at Walter Bishop, clenching and unclenching his fists while Bishop watches the piano, unaware. When she is done, Hypatia is next, and Lewis uses the break between players as an excuse to extract himself from Kate and replenish the food and wine.

Hathaway slopes casually over to where Innocent seems to be relaxing near the kitchen.

"Everything going alright?" he asks.

She smiles genuinely. "Yes, I think this has gone well, one more player here, and then I'll be done." She looks up at him. "Lewis has done well tonight, it surprised me a bit what a good host he can be when he tries."

She sees James bite his lower lip. "What is it, Hathaway? You're not always this obvious when you're deciding whether to tell me about something I should know."

Hathaway attempts a guileless air. "No, it's nothing like that. It's just . . ." he searches for the right words, and she cocks her eyebrows at him, questioningly.

"Well, what is it with him, anyway?" James nods toward where Lewis leans against the wall. Naomi Norris is standing on one side of him, her hand on his arm, and Frances Wheeler is on the other side, leaning in so close as to be touching. Both women seem amused by something Lewis is saying.

Innocent's eyes widen and her mouth opens slightly. "What in the name of . . ." her gaze snaps to meet Hathaway's. "He's a _bird magnet!_"

Hathaway suppresses a guffaw. "Exactly. You should have seen one of them with him in the kitchen."

She narrows her eyes. "Does that explain the lipstick on the collar of his shirt?" Hathaway nods in confirmation, but qualifies.

"_That_ he didn't enjoy. But this," he nods, "I mean, look at him. He's having a grand old time. I always thought he was rather shy of the fairer sex."

A new voice chimes in. "Ah, but Sergeant Hathaway, you never knew him back when he was a young and carefree sergeant himself."

Jean and James turn to the newcomer. It's Professor Gold, and she moves in close to the pair of police officers to allow her to keep her voice down—and perhaps to invite confidences, as well.

She checks their expressions and sees that they are willing her to continue.

"Oh, yes, Robbie Lewis was a fair flirt when he was a younger man. A harmless flirt, mind you. He was married then, and utterly devoted to his wife. But his love for her seemed to lend him an easy confidence, particularly among his female colleagues. I remember wondering at how effortlessly he could laugh, and how innocently. He certainly liked to chat up women, Sergeant, but would _never _move beyond that." She notes their astonished expressions, and smiles nostalgically to herself. "Safely married and would never stray but my, he did like to chat up the ladies."

They haven't realized Lewis has extracted himself from his admirers and is standing not two feet from Professor Gold, shaking his head.

Hathaway can hardly believe it. "_Really?_" is all he can manage to say.

She nods, smiling. Then, realizing his proximity, "Isn't that right, Inspector?"

Lewis rolls his eyes for the benefit of his colleagues. "If you say so, Professor. I don't really remember it quite that way."

She studies him, turning serious. "More's the pity. It would do you a world of good to remember how happy you can be if you only give yourself the chance. Surely you could find some happiness with one of these lovely women?" She nods toward some of them.

James waits for the reaction. He knows Robbie won't dare use the _Back off!_ tone with Professor Gold, he's far too respectful of her.

Lewis dips his eyes. "I'm, erm . . . not really interested in any of them, not that way. None of them is really my type." He's aware that his excuse sounds lame.

She shifts her position so she can peer up into his eyes. He stares back, refusing to flinch from her scrutiny. Satisfied, she at last steps back. "Ah, it's someone else then, someone you're comfortable with, am I right?"

He looks a bit flustered at this, but before he can answer, the concert resumes with the final player for this venue, Hypatia Banfield-Knight at the keyboard. She is taking on another selection from _Iberia_, an ambitious, soaring piece. Walter is turning pages for her, and to Hathaway's eye, the man is sitting far too close to her when the music requires so much action on her part.

But Hypatia again plays flawlessly, and when she is done, she seeks out David Cleveland, finding him in the sun room and clinging to him.

Lewis happens to be near, collecting used glasses and abandoned plates for washing up. Oxford academics often treat him as though he is invisible, and although at first he resented it, he's found it useful more than once in his line of work.

"Well? Did you see him while I was trying to play? He's revolting. Are you certain you can do it?" Her eyes are dark as she stares at David.

"I said I would, didn't I? I just need the right chance, okay?" His tone indicates some hostility.

She shoots a glance at Lewis, who appears oblivious as he tidies the table. "Fine." Then she pushes David outside, out of anyone's hearing.

As he gazes after them, Lewis becomes aware of another couple working out some difficulties between them.

"It's embarrassing to _me_, _that's_ the problem. The poor girl could hardly play with you sitting so close, peering down her cleavage." It's Claire Beswick, taking Walter to task.

"Love, I said I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it, it's that music, I get so swept up in it."

Marietta tries to intervene on his behalf. "He's right, Claire, that music! It makes my hands want to dance."

The silence is so solid, Lewis has to peek out from under his eyebrows to see what is happening. Claire is staring from her husband to her friend, back and forth, while Walter and Marietta stare only at each other. At last, Claire breaks the moment.

"Oh, I see. I see how it is. All that time you two spend in 'rehearsal' together, and what it really is, is your hands dancing, isn't it? Dancing all over each other, I should think!" She wheels past them and bolts from the room, nearly colliding with Robbie as he stands with three empty wine glasses in his hands.

Marietta blinks a moment. "Oh, dear God," she says at last. Then she glares at Walter. "What have you been telling her?" When he doesn't answer, she shakes her head angrily. "I can't do this any more, Walter. I just can't." She turns and stalks away from him.

Hathaway, entering the sun room, has to lurch back against the wall as she brushes by without a word of apology. He looks from Walter to Robbie, and back again, but neither offers an explanation. Walter looks to be in shock.

Robbie nods towards two half-empty glasses on the table. "James? If you'd just collect those?" Hathaway does, and the two detectives beat a fast retreat from the room. They set the glasses down in the kitchen, and Lewis nods his thanks.

"Only too happy to help, Sir. The air in that room was pretty toxic."

Lewis rolls his eyes in agreement. "Time for you to be moving on to Laura's, I suppose." He scans the kitchen, every inch of surface space occupied by dirty dishes and food needing to be stored. He sighs. "Maybe I'll catch up with you at Stillmans'. Give Laura my apology for missing hers." He makes one more rather pathetic check of the mess. "Okay?"

"Of course, Sir." Hathaway feels for about a half-second an urge to offer to help. But fortunately, it fades rather quickly. "Later, then." He turns and doesn't look back.


	4. Chapter 4

By the time James finds a place to park his car, most of the guests have arrived and Laura's house is buzzing with conversation. He makes his way to the food table and looks it over. The offerings are elegant, innovative, and quite simply, mouth watering. There is something here for every appetite: miniature sandwiches, savory spreads, exotic fruits trimmed into delicate shapes, decadent sweets, cheeses, and biscuits of every sort. He picks up a plate and begins to fill it. When someone touches his elbow, he turns.

"James! I didn't know you were going to be here." It's Laura Hobson, and she is fairly sparkling in a shimmering, sheer black blouse over a turquoise blue camisole with a deeply cut neckline, trousers in black-and-turquoise patterned silk, a cascade of silver and turquoise bangles, and a simple but elegant silver and turquoise pendant that follows the shape of her camisole.

He grins broadly. "Doctor! You're looking lovely this evening. Even better than this table." His smile turns a bit self-conscious as she glances, amused, at all the food heaped onto his plate.

She smirks at him winningly. "Be sure not to miss the drinks table. There's a nice Bordeaux I've opened for tonight, I think you'll like it. Or if you'd like something stronger, just let me know."

He notices she's looking around at faces as though searching for someone. Without further prompting, he explains. "Inspector Lewis has been shanghaied by the Chief Super tonight. He said he expected to be stuck clearing up for at least an hour, and sends his apology."

"Ah." This is obviously what she has been wondering. "Not that I expected him to show, but when I saw you were here . . . Well, I'd better see to the food, looks like some things are getting low." She squeezes his elbow again and then hurries to the kitchen.

James finds a ledge near the drinks table and sets his glass of wine there while he picks over the selection on his plate. The food is as delicious as it looks. He finds particularly addictive the crunchy cheese straws, which have a tasty addition of onion and a touch of hot pepper.

While he nibbles, Hathaway scans the faces, recognizing nearly all of them by now. But some seem to be missing. At least Celeste and her family are not there, and he relaxes a bit as he checks the program he picked up at Holywell and sees that the little girl is done playing for the evening. Professor Gold sets a plate down next to his glass, and she smiles at him warmly.

"I do hope I wasn't too hard on your superior officer. But it's really quite silly for a man as charming as he to be so very much alone, don't you think?"

Before he can answer, the corner of Hathaway's eye makes contact with Doctor Hobson, hurrying across the room with a tray of food. Close behind her is Alec Pickman, a lecherous leer on his face. James feels his eyes involuntarily narrow, and he has to force his attention back to the woman standing at his side.

"Erm, I'm sorry, Professor. I'm, erm . . . not sure it's really any of my business, as Inspector Lewis is so very fond of reminding me. But, yes, he does seem rather lonely at times." He steals a glimpse in Laura's direction.

The sharp-eyed and sharp-witted professor takes that in. "Ahh, I see. You think he fancies our Doctor Hobson, do you?"

James snorts. "It's a theory. But no more than that."

"It looks as though she perhaps has other suitors as well," and she nods in Laura's direction. By now, Alec is not the only man paying Hobson too much attention. Walter Bishop is at her side, and it's difficult to say whether she feels rescued or further beset.

He sets his mouth. "If you'll excuse me, Professor, it seems as though she could use a bit of assistance." He pushes away from the ledge and crosses the room with long, slow strides.

The old woman smiles approvingly at James's show of chivalry, and nods to herself as with subtle movements he detaches each man's hands from the doctor, takes her firmly by one elbow, and guides her to the relative safety of the kitchen, throwing an occasional glare over his shoulder.

"You alright, Doctor? I hope I wasn't presuming too much there."

She blinks, then shakes her head slightly. "No, you're fine. Thanks." She gives a ghost of a smile. "I couldn't tell if they were competing with each other or double-teaming me."

"Do you mind if I keep a bit of an eye out for you tonight? Inspector Lewis will kill me if he finds out either of those men had his hands on you."

This makes her eyes twinkle. "I'd appreciate it, actually. I have enough to do here without having to worry about who's standing too close behind me . . . and what he may be holding in his hand." She takes on an expression of semi-amused disgust. "Thanks, James. I'm not really worried about Walter, but Alec's had a skinful and any good judgment he may have had is long gone, I should think. And now I really do have to see how the food supply is holding up."

By this time, Professor Gold has moved off to talk with friends. Hathaway collects his plate and finishes off his selections. He snatches a couple more cheese straws and wanders through Laura's house. He's never been here. It's not as big as Innocent's house, and it has a warmer feel.

He checks out the living room, where the concert will take place. She has a smaller Steinway in rich, gleaming walnut, and the room has been cleared of nearly all furniture except seating, which consists of some benches and all manner of chairs. Some chairs have been set up behind the piano bench, and James decides he will try to sit there, where he can peek over the pianists' shoulders and see the music. And anything else on display from that angle.

Deciding there's time for a cigarette before the performance, Hathaway grabs another handful of cheese straws, nibbling as he makes his way to the garden. He reaches in his pocket for his cigarettes, and his fingers discover the marijuana joint he'd collected from Cameron. For a second, he considers it. _Been a long time, James, a buzz might be just the thing_. But he rejects the idea as a bad one for any number of reasons. Instead, he pulls out his packet, slides one out, and lights it, inhaling long and holding in the smoke for several seconds before releasing it slowly through his nose. He decides to flush the joint away as soon as he gets back inside. _Wouldn't do to get caught with it_.

He flicks the cigarette down when it is only about half gone and grinds it into the ground. He's uneasy at leaving Laura unsupervised for very long. Indeed, when he finds her, Walter is standing very close, one hand on her waist, listening with rapt attention to whatever it is she's saying. He straightens at James's approach. Laura recognizes that James has his back up, and she speaks before he can.

"Walter, this is James Hathaway, a friend of mine. James, Walter Bishop."

They shake hands, both men circumspect.

"Walter and I were just talking about piano tuners. Apparently, I'm fortunate to have the fellow I've had for years; good tuners are hard to find these days."

Walter nods in agreement. "Now, my dear, if you'll excuse me, I think we should get this concert underway."

Hathaway cocks his eyebrows at her, and Laura smiles softly. "He really is harmless; it's just that he's very hands-on. But thank you, Sergeant. And I think you'd best find a chair pretty soon." She herself leans against the doorway to the kitchen, while Hathaway decides a quick stop in the toilet would be a good idea.

He's drying his hands when he hears raised voices through the closed bathroom door.

"Calm down, Baby, just tell me what happened." It's Cameron's voice, and Hathaway gets as close to the door as he can.

There are a couple of hiccupping sobs, and then Giselle's voice, hushed: "I tried, y'know, rubbing on him the way you said would get him horny but he pushed me off instead."

"He's faking; he's worried his wife will see."

"He was so rough with me, Cammo, his hands are so strong, he hurt me." Her voice is louder. "He's such a beast!" And then: "What was that? Someone was there, Cam! Someone heard us!"

"Shit! Let's get out of here!"

"You have to play, Cam. You go ahead, I'll get myself together so I can play it right this time."

Hathaway hears them both walk away, but he waits a while before listening at the door and finally slipping out. He discretely cuts through the kitchen, helps himself to a few more cheese straws and a glass of wine, and finds a seat with a good view of the music.

Cameron plays first, appearing perfectly calm and repeating the Brahms in the same style he played it earlier. Giselle, up next, also repeats, playing the Mozart, but this time making it sound as it should, and Hathaway wonders at how upset she must have been to play so poorly at Holywell. Then Claire plays something by Ravel that Hathaway doesn't recognize, and he realizes that she is very, very good. The same can be said for Marietta, who renders the Rachmaninoff _Melodie in E Major_ with elegance and precision.

But as the music builds to a crescendo, Hathaway notices movement by the kitchen, and his eyes stray that way. He realizes Pickman is standing behind Hobson, and his hands are everywhere—he cups her breast, strokes her neck, and even tries to slide a hand inside her trousers. Laura is squirming silently, trying to fend him off without causing a distraction from the music. Hathaway starts as if to rise, and when Pickman sees him he immediately disappears back into the kitchen. Laura smoothes her clothes and steps farther into the living room for safety, shaking her head at James to let him know she's alright, not wishing to cause further disturbance.

Then Claire and Marietta play four-hands dances, very fun and lively. Hathaway thinks to himself that the two women certainly seem to be back on friendly terms, considering what happened in the sun room. But perhaps this is all an act, or maybe their making music together takes precedence. But before he has time to wonder overmuch about it, the concert is done and people and standing and applauding.

James watches from the front window as the attendees happily filter out the door, some dropping cheques or folded notes into the tophat placed strategically on the table in the front hall. The Asian student who helps with page turning is writing out receipts for those donors who request them, and Hathaway eyes the mound of money in the hat, thinking how easy it would be for the student to help himself to a bit of remuneration for his time here tonight. The lad is scruffy, with an intentional few days' growth of beard and rumpled, black hair, and he looks up suddenly, eyes squarely meeting Hathaway's, as though he can hear the policeman's suspicions. James breaks the stalemate with an easy smile.

"Getting a lot of donations?"

The young man glances at the hat as though he is just now aware of its contents, then he returns the smile.

"Yeah, we're way up from last year. This house was a good one. This'll really help the contest."

His earnestness is clear in his voice, and James is satisfied that he was carefully chosen as someone who could be trusted with the donations. "That's great. Here, let me . . ." and James adds his own cheque to the hat, accepting the hastily scrawled receipt from the lad.

With a wide grin, the young fellow carefully holds the hat in front of him as he heads out the door. "Going to the last stop? Looks like everyone is pretty much out of here."

"Erm, yeah, I just need to check in with the hostess." James waves at the retreating figure and turns toward the kitchen. "Doctor? You need any help clearing up?"

Laura emerges from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel. She looks happy and exhausted. "I'm fine, James, thank you. The trick to a do like this is to minimize cleanup to things that can be easily stored, binned, or stowed in the dishwasher. You go on to Stillmans', I'll be along fairly soon, I should think." Her smile sparkles, and James returns a grin.

"Okay, see you later."

* * *

><p>Conversation is lively as the guests help themselves to the amazing array of food Denise and George Stillman have set out for them. George has not only opened several bottles of wine with admirable labels, but has also mixed up a pitcher of gin and tonic, and several bottled beers are on offer. The Stillmans are easy in the role of hosts, and this makes their guests equally comfortable in their home. But Denise is not fully at ease just at the moment, and she approaches Claire in a bit of a fluster.<p>

"Where's Walter?"

Claire stares a moment, absorbing the implications. "Walter? Isn't he here?" But she knows he's _not_ here, or Denise wouldn't be asking. "Did you ask Marietta?"

Denise composes her face carefully. "Marietta's not here, either. Not yet, at least." She keeps her tone free of judgment, but the potential inferences lash at Claire, regardless. She turns away, biting the insides of her cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Claire, I'm sure there's a simple explanation."

And indeed, at that moment, the front door opens, and Marietta rushes in, cheeks flushed. "Denise, Claire, I am _so_ sorry I'm late!"

Claire merely stares at her, but Marietta doesn't notice, and continues babbling on. "I had a puncture and do you think one, single person could have stopped to help?" She holds up two very dirty and rather scuffed hands. "Look at these! I hope I can still play. Let me just wash up and I'll be ready, I promise." She turns to dash for the bathroom, but suddenly realizes no one else has spoken, and her friend looks to be in shock.

"Claire, darling, whatever is wrong?"

* * *

><p>Despite Walter's absence, the decision is made to begin the concert as planned. Claire and Marietta sit down for more four-hands music, but the tension is apparent. As they play, Denise takes the phone into the other room and begins to see if she can find out what is taking Walter so long and whom he might be with.<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

Still tasting the onion in the cheese straws, James feels strangely contented as he pilots the car out of her quiet street and on to the main road. He could probably walk to the house but he's already a bit late, having sat and checked his phone for messages and tweets before starting the engine, and he wants to have his car nearby at the end of the evening. A policeman should never be too far from his car, he tells himself to help justify driving the few miles. Besides, he's much too mellow right now to be doing anything as energetic as walking. He can't wait to tease Lewis about how good the food was at Laura's, though Jean's spread was almost as tasty. And the wine! That Saint-Émilion Laura had opened was probably wasted on half the crowd, he thinks. He recalls how quickly Alec Pickman refilled his glass, and hopes the sot isn't driving.

Then a nagging thought nudges its way into James's head. _Pickman, what happened to him at the end of the set at Laura's?_ Hathaway realizes he never saw the man leave. But there was no other way for him to go out; even if he had for some reason gone out the back way, James would have seen him going past the front of the house as he left the garden.

Alarmed now, James sharply navigates the next intersection so that he is heading back to Laura's, his pulse quickening. He curses every red light and ignores the posted speed limit. Parking carelessly, he slams the car door and hurries to the house. He knocks as he lets himself in, glancing around to locate her.

"Doctor? Doctor Hobson? It's James!" He races into the kitchen, still in the stages of cleanup, but she is not there. He sees in the sun room a chair has been knocked over and some flowerpots have fallen from the shelf. His heart is pounding now, and he almost fails to hear a door open and footsteps treading the stairs. He wheels into the hall and nearly runs over Laura as she reaches the ground floor. He stops short, stunned.

She is in complete disarray, her blouse torn, and the button of her trousers missing. He can tell she has been crying, her eyes are reddened and her makeup is smeared. He reaches his arms around her and envelopes her, and he can feel her trembling.

"Shh, it's alright, you're alright," he croons quietly into her hair. He walks her into the kitchen and holds her with one arm while he one-handedly gets the kettle started. He manages to perch her on a stool, and she props herself up with her elbows on the counter. As he readies the mugs, James asks Laura questions without looking at her directly, feeling he presents less of a threat this way.

"Are you injured? Do you want me to call someone?"

She shakes her head somewhat dismissively, staring at her own hands.

He passes her the warm mug and gently places his hand on her shoulder.

"You should report this, you know."

Now she looks at him, her eyes flinty.

"I'm fine, James, it was just a misunderstanding." She notes his raised eyebrow. "I mean it, this is the end of it, right here."

Hathaway reads her real meaning into her words. "Don't tell Lewis, is that what you mean?"

She stares sharply. "I mean, don't tell _anyone_. Nothing happened, alright?"

He swallows. "May I at least put out a call to pick him up?"

"For what, Sergeant? I just told you, nothing happened. A bit of pawing and groping, that's all."

His expression softens, and he nods. "If that's how you want it." He glances around the room. "Look, you work on that tea and I'll finish up here, okay?"

At last she offers a small smile. "Thank you, that would be fine. I'll be okay in a minute or two."

Hathaway is up to his elbows in soapy water when the phone rings. He glances at Laura, and she clears her throat and answers, her voice steady and calm.

"Hello?"

Immediately her brow furrows in puzzlement.

"No . . . he, erm . . . he left here some time ago, I don't know, maybe twenty minutes?"

She listens a bit longer, then asks, "Maybe he went back to Jean's to warm up? . . . Oh, I see. I'm sure he just lost track of the time, Denise, try not to worry about it. I'll see you soon, we're nearly done here. Bye."

She hangs up the phone, an odd expression on her face. "Walter Bishop hasn't shown up yet at the Stillmans'. He should have gone there directly from here."

It's James's turn to look puzzled. "Denise already checked with Innocent?"

"She called there first. He hasn't been there."

Hathaway snorts. "He's probably off somewhere having it away with that Marietta or some other woman." He stops short when he sees her expression. "What?"

"Nothing." She barely gets the word out, shaking her head. Hathaway is about to press her, when she snaps her eyes up at him. "_Nothing_. Claire has to put up with enough without you helping spread vicious rumors about her husband."

"Okay, I get the message." But he's taken aback by her tone.

Laura tells him she's going to change and clean herself up, and it doesn't take Hathaway much longer to clear up what's left of the dishes and leftover food. He lifts the liner bag from the bin, ties it shut, and totes it out to the rubbish bin in the garden. It's dark, and he realizes he should have turned on a light. He can barely make out the low fence around Laura's bins . . . and the rather large, dark shape lying on the grass in front of them. He peers closer at the shape as he approaches, then flings the bag aside and flies forward, on his knees and checking the body for a pulse. Even in the dim light, he can see it is Walter Bishop. Or rather, _was_ Walter Bishop, for there is no pulse, and James's fingers come away dark and wet, sticky with blood. At his touch, the head swivels, and now he can see it is attached to the neck by the vertebrae only; the trachea, esophagus, skin, muscles, and tendons have been severed completely through. He staggers to his feet and makes it halfway back to the house before he throws up all of Laura's good food and wine.

* * *

><p>James sits with Laura in the kitchen, clutching a mug of tea. This time it is he who is shivering; she's wrapped a woolen rug around his shoulders. He's already phoned in to the station, but he's not sure how the call will be handled at the CID level. Laura has already dialed Denise Stillman to let her know Walter Bishop will not be arriving to play, and that the last stage of the concert should be canceled. She has only managed to tell Denise that something has happened to Walter when Hathaway inhales deeply, steeling himself, and takes the phone from her. He first asks Denise if DI Lewis is there. When she replies in the negative, he asks Denise to please put Claire on the line but to stay by her. He hates having to give news like this without being there in person, but expects by the time any other experienced officer can deliver the news, Claire will have found out through rumors or some insensitive, rookie PC.<p>

"Claire Beswick? I'm Detective Sergeant Hathaway. I'm afraid I have very bad news for you. I'm sorry to have to tell you, your husband has been found dead." He waits for the expected reaction, and when he is certain she's ready for more bad news, he continues. "At this point, it appears that he was murdered, Ms. Beswick. Police officers should be arriving at the Stillmans' house to assist you. I'm afraid we'll need you to help us identify him for the record." He listens a bit longer, then once more tells her he is sorry, and hangs up.

Next he dials another number and waits for his call to be picked up.

"Ma'am, it's Sergeant Hathaway. I'm at Laura Hobson's, and I've just discovered the body of Walter Bishop in her garden. He's been murdered." He listens a moment. "Yes, Ma'am. I think everyone else is at the Stillmans'; it would make sense to set up an operation there, since we'll have to interview all the concert guests anyway. . . . Yes, Ma'am." He ends the call and turns to Laura.

"We're to go to the Stillmans' as soon as SOCOs get here. I expect we're in for a long night, so you might want to bring something to do."

Laura almost protests that she can examine the body, when she realizes that will most certainly not be permitted. "Right." She clears up the tea things, looking a bit lost.

"Are you okay, Doctor?"

She raises an eyebrow, looking skeptical. "You mean, after all this? I very much doubt it."

James exhales through his nose. "Right. Sorry." His eyes show he means it. Then he adds, "Inspector Lewis will be there, Innocent's bringing him along." He checks her expression, but she's giving no clues. "Just thought you'd want to know."

Then Hathaway fixes his eyes on Laura. "At some point you're going to have to tell us—me, if you want—everything that happened after I left here." He sees the reluctance in her eyes. "I promise I won't let Inspector Lewis find out anything he doesn't need to know, alright? But Doctor . . . a man's been found murdered in your garden. I know I don't have to tell you how important it is that I be told everything that may have some bearing on how that came to be."


	6. Chapter 6

The Stillmans are most gracious hosts, offering more food and more drink all around, not just to the concert guests, but also to the sudden influx of uniformed police officers, who are setting up areas where they can take the details of everyone present. Hathaway locates Innocent and Lewis in the breakfast nook off of the kitchen.

"So, how are we doing this, Ma'am?" He then notices Lewis looks rather grumpier than usual. "Sir?"

Innocent flicks her eyebrows toward Lewis, and he accepts the duty of answering. "We're _not_ 'doing this,' Sergeant. You may recall from your training that because we were all with Professor Bishop tonight, we're all suspects, _especially_ the man who found the body and has, so far, a nonexistent explanation of his whereabouts during the time leading up to the murder."

Hathaway stares at his Chief Super. "_Suspects?_ What, even you?"

"Even myself, Sergeant. At least until we can each be ruled out."

Hathaway stares open-mouthed, first at Lewis, then at Innocent, then back again. "_Bloody hell_." He thinks a moment. "So who's in charge?"

"The only DI I have to spare right now is Glover." She glares pointedly. "And I expect full cooperation. From _both_ of you."

The two detectives glance at each other.

"Full. Cooperation. Understand? I won't say it twice." She gets up and goes to see what DI Glover has managed to organize.

"_But you DID say it twice_," Hathaway mutters, _sotto voce_, and he draws a smile from his inspector.

Lewis fingers a pen, flipping it over and over, through one finger at a time. He sighs and stares at the table. "_Glover!_ That hack. Bloody hell, I need a drink." He gets up to see what's left of the drinks table.

Hathaway debates whether he should tell Glover to pick up Alec. And he thinks about what Laura has told him, picking through her words very carefully. He has an excellent memory, and he is fairly certain he remembers her words verbatim. _Where's the part when she told me it was Alec?_ The crease in his forehead deepens. He decides he needs to talk this over with his inspector, even if he has to use vague terms.

* * *

><p>George Stillman has been generous enough to provide Robbie with a large measure of cognac. Robbie takes a long swallow, closing his eyes and willing the heat that spreads through his body to loosen up all the clenched muscles that are starting to ache. It is, at least, partially effective, and he feels better. He scans the gathering for Laura Hobson, and spots her off to herself, studying a watercolor hanging on the wall. With a slight smile playing on his lips, he approaches.<p>

"Laura?" He's keeping his distance, as though he's afraid she'll bolt like a startled doe.

She whirls, and sure enough, there is a slightly wild look in her eyes. Then she melts. "Oh, it's you, Robbie."

He comes closer, and offers his tumbler. "Something to calm you?"

She considers for only a moment, then accepts the glass and takes a small sip, shuddering a little and inhaling air as a chaser. He takes advantage of her inattention to move right next to her.

"Must have been shocking, finding a body in your garden."

"Well, James found him."

Lewis makes his next question sound casual. "He'd stayed to help you clean up?"

Her brow furrows. "Who? Walter?"

"No, James."

She considers her answer a moment, and Lewis pushes away the thought that that's what people do when they decide to lie.

"Mmm. He's good at washing up, as it turns out."

_Not quite a lie, then. But an incomplete answer._

"And then he found the body when he went out to the bins?"

She stares at him now. "What is this, Robbie? Are you looking to take my statement?"

He has no desire to push against her, especially when he's not even required to do so. "I'm sorry, Laura, really. Don't mind me. It's just . . . I don't trust Glover to do this right. He's as likely to find _Hathaway_ did it, for all he'll be able to solve this."

He fidgets, though, and she can see that, more than anything, he wants to know what happened. She sets her mouth in a firm line, but it slowly creeps upward at the corners as she talks.

"Look, Robbie, why don't I tell you what I know, alright? Then maybe you can relax a little and enjoy Denise's excellent food." She is smiling by now, and he can only smile in response.

"Thank you, Laura." He touches the back of her hand with his fingertips, then pulls them back as though he's been caught trespassing.

They sit down on the L-shaped sofa, her left knee touching his right. She takes a deep breath. "I was starting to clean up. Suddenly, I felt someone behind me put hands on my waist. I gave a bit of a shriek, but it was only Walter. I think he felt badly about startling me, and he apologized, thanked me for hosting the concert, and left. James had been collecting plates and glasses; when he heard me, he made straight for the kitchen. By that time, Walter was gone. I was too embarrassed to explain to him, and passed it off as imagination or some such. James got me some tea and finished the washing up. I'd gone upstairs to change when he came in all shaken from finding Walter." She takes one of his hands in both of hers, and looks deeply into his eyes. "And that's all there was to it."

Lewis cracks what he hopes looks like a foolish smile, the smile of a man who's made far too much mountain out of a molehill.

"Thank you, Laura," he says again, and he squeezes her hand.

But his gut instinct is screaming at him: _Lies, lies, lies, lies, lies!_

His attention is snapped when Innocent taps him on the shoulder: "Pathologist's preliminary report, library, NOW."

Robbie shoots a look at Laura. "Sorry. Excuse me," and he jumps up and follows his Chief Super.

The police officers gather in the library and close the door to afford the most privacy possible. DI Glover stands and clears his throat to gain the attention of the others.

"We have the initial examination report." He waves some papers and continues, his nasal accent grating on pretty much everyone's nerves.

"Walter Bishop was killed with a length of piano wire, wrapped around his neck, at approximately 8:00 p.m. It appears he was hit over the head; this would not have been enough to kill him but could have knocked him out. It is unclear at this point whether he was strangled and then his neck was severed with the wire, or if his neck was severed while he was alive and he bled to death."

"_Piano wire, Christ!_" one of the uniformed officers hisses.

Glover glares at the interruption. "Forensics will have more information on that after the autopsy and when the amount of blood found in Doctor Hobson's garden has been evaluated."

The senior SOCO stands up. "We recovered from the garden Professor Bishop's bag of piano repair equipment. It included spools of wire and a clipper suitable for clipping said wire. No fingerprints were found on any of this, except for Professor Bishop's own."

Glover gazes perfunctorily over the room. "Any other questions?"

Lewis stands, earning him several scowls—Glover, Innocent, and those officers who wish to make a short night of it. "Any indication whether Bishop had had sex recently?"

Hathaway looks up sharply. He had overheard the conversation between Lewis and Hobson, sneaking up and eavesdropping. He'd thought Hobson had played her part convincingly. Now it appeared perhaps Lewis had his own theories.

Glover glowers at Lewis. "What, are you trying to find out if your—" But he suddenly thinks better of it, and rephrases his comment. "SOCOs is still checking on that." But he smirks at Robbie, whose jaw—and fists—suddenly tense.

Innocent tugs Lewis to a corner. "Robbie? If you have suspicions, or if you know something, you will tell Glover, understood? You may not—I repeat, may NOT—conduct independent inquiries where you may well have a conflict of interest."

Lewis stares at her for nearly a full minute.

Then: "Right. I understand." He puffs out his cheeks. "I need a smoke." He turns, ignoring her open-mouthed astonishment, and grabs Hathaway by the elbow, piloting him toward the door. "My office, Sergeant, _now_," he says under his breath as they go outside.

Hathaway is on full alert, not the least due to the fact that DI Lewis accepts a cigarette from him and is pulling at it right now as though he's been a smoker all his life.

Lewis releases a stream of smoke, and opens his eyes directly into Hathaway's.

"I used to, in case you're wondering." He cracks a half-smile

James's eyes are everywhere but on his inspector's. "So . . . why are we out here?"

Lewis sucks on the fag as though he is trying to kill it. "You know the reason, Sergeant." Then when he sees Hathaway is thinking of ways to try to stretch this out as much as possible, he snaps.

"Hobson. She lied to me. What the bloody hell happened at her house, James?"

Hathaway studies the ground. "I . . . I don't know, Sir. I really don't. She wasn't honest with me, either."

"Tell me your side of things, and don't you _dare_ leave anything out."

Hathaway can tell from the emphasis that omission would be tantamount to suicide.

"Yes, Sir." He takes a deep breath.

"I asked her if she needed help cleaning up. She said no. I left. I was a couple miles away when it dawned on me that I hadn't seen Pickman leave her place. He'd been after her the whole time. I didn't think about Walter, though. I can't say whether I saw him leave or not."

"You left, you mean, in your car?"

"Yeah. I was gone, I left."

Lewis nods, drawing again on the cigarette.

"And so you returned?" The pause is too short to let James continue. "You _left._ She said you were there the whole time." He looks sharply at his Sergeant.

Hathaway inhales. "I wasn't." The words—and all their implications—fall heavily between them.

"Well, bang goes your alibi," Lewis says dryly.

_And hers_, Hathaway thinks.

"So, you went back," Lewis prompts. It's not a question.

"Erm, yeah." He takes a last draw on the cigarette and this time flicks it away, not caring where it lands.

Lewis measures the space of the silence, twisting his mouth. _Long enough_.

"When I got there, I let myself in, and called to her. She was upstairs. No one else was there. She came down, seemed a bit shaken. Said she was just tired. I made her tea and cleared up the kitchen for her. Then I took the rubbish out and found Walter." Only now does he make eye contact. "And that's it."

They are both aware that the strands that bind them together are being twisted, warped. _Who do you trust?_ is the whispered undertone. Lewis sucks in a breath. _Who DO you trust, when you're certain a person you thought you could trust is lying?_

Hathaway says nothing. It's his word against that of Laura Hobson. He presses his eyelids shut, willing Lewis to hear his thoughts. _Please see the truth. Please see the truth_.

He opens his eyes and finds that Lewis has closed his. Has drawn in a huge breath. Has pinched off the world from his calculations, has limited everything to _What is the Truth of the situation here?_

Lewis snaps his eyes open, fire flying from them, and Hathaway flinches from the burn.

"Sir?"

"_You_ question her. You know what she told me is a lie. Corner her. Who is she protecting?"

Hathaway turns away, he can't face his boss with what truths and untruths he knows.

But Lewis grabs him, swivels him to front, and slams him with a left hook that leaves him gasping, spinning, and clutching at consciousness.

"_Goddamn it, Hathaway!_" Lewis is hissing, red-faced, furious, and far, far beyond the reach of logic or of intervening officers. "MAKE her tell you. Be hard on her, HARD on her. What the _hell_ happened while you were gone?" His anger is fueled in part by the fact that he knows that James, too, is lying to him, that James knows what happened to Laura and won't tell him.

Stunned, Hathaway puts a tentative hand to his temple. He is bleeding, and it hurts pretty badly. He holds out his bloody fingertips, hoping the sight will sway his senior officer. "Sir? I'm bleeding." He knows it's more extensive than his temple, but this is the most dramatic showing of blood. Hathaway makes it as a statement of fact, free of complaint or defense.

Lewis stares at the blood. It takes him several beats to realize he is the cause of it. Then he gasps, and loses all momentum and rigidity, and collapses in on himself, sagging onto a chair.

"God, James, I'm so sorry. I'm . . ." he dissolves into shudders. "Are you alright? I got you with m'left, that was always m'best." He's shivering.

Hathaway is not about to succumb to the apology. He swallows the blood Lewis's fist caused to spout in his mouth, and glares, angry at the attack.

"Sod off. I'm not about to play the bastard for you. Let Glover do it." He wheels through the door, and he leaves Lewis alone in the garden, rubbing the knuckles of his left hand and staring into the darkness.

By the time Hathaway has gotten himself cleaned up in the bathroom, he feels a bit differently. After all, he was lying, too, and he knows that Lewis wasn't fooled. As he wanders through the house looking for his boss, he overhears some of the questions the PCs are asking people, and he shakes his head sadly. _Glover will never sort this out_.

It takes several minutes before Hathaway sees that Lewis is still in the garden, his face in his hands. James goes out and pulls up another chair. Lewis looks up at him, but says nothing, assessing the sergeant's mood.

"I'm sorry, Sir."

"_You're_ sorry? What'd _you_ do?"

Hathaway knows he doesn't have to answer.

At last, Lewis turns to James. "Okay, Sergeant. You heard what Laura said to me, am I right?" Without hesitation, Hathaway nods.

"Right. Then, what do you know differently?"

"I told Doctor Hobson that I wouldn't tell you anything you didn't need to know. But the thing is, I'm not sure how much I can add. She wouldn't say much, and when I think back on it, I realize she told me even less than I thought at the time."

He takes a big breath, and continues. "When I got back to the house, she was upstairs. No one else was there. She came down and it was obvious she'd been . . . assaulted." He pushes on, trying to ignore how Robbie's eyes snap up in alarm and stare at him, widening. "Her clothes were torn and she'd been crying. She said it was nothing but pawing and groping, a misunderstanding. I think it was more than that. The whole time, I assumed she was talking about Alec, but when I thought back after we got here, I realized she never said who it was."

Lewis's eyes narrow. "Meaning?"

"It could have been Walter."

Lewis releases a snort through his nose. "And Laura Hobson killed him in self-defense, is that your theory, Sergeant?" The disbelief is clear in his voice.

"No, Sir, that is _not_ my theory." James struggles to stay calm. "She'd have been covered in blood, wouldn't she?" He says this lightly, as though the whole idea is ridiculous. But then his tone changes. "Sir, if she wasn't the last person to see Walter alive, she was most probably the second-to-last. We have to treat this seriously. Glover will, if he finds out."

Lewis cocks an eyebrow at the implication that Glover might not be told. Then he inhales, and stands up. "We have to get this sorted. We have to know who assaulted Laura. If it was Alec, maybe Walter broke it up and Alec took revenge on him. And if it was Walter . . ." He stops, not wanting to go there.

"Then maybe Alec did it, jealous of Walter's success." As soon as the words are out, he wishes he could call them back. What if it _had_ been Walter having a bit of a grope, and Laura had allowed it? And if Alec showed up, spoiling for a fight?

Lewis is studying him. "Okay, look. Before we convince ourselves that Laura Hobson is a murderer, let's think about this. Who else has a motive?"

Hathaway snorts. "Who _doesn't_, with this bunch?"

Lewis frowns. "Well, let's start where we always do: the spouse."

"And their friend, Marietta. Love-triangle jealousies?"

"Pretty standard stuff. But Marietta killing because Walter won't give her what she wants, or Claire killing because he will? Do any of them have alibis?"

"Claire was here when Laura called right after I found the body. But it's my understanding Marietta wasn't, claimed she had a puncture on the way here. That's what I heard was the story."

Lewis looks thoughtful. "Has Glover's team found any outside reason? Dodgy finances or what have you?"

Hathaway smiles innocently. "I took a little peek at the stack of reports left unattended in the library when DI Glover went to have a pee. If it's not one of the people associated with this concert tonight, I'll buy you dinner tomorrow."

"Alright then. Who else? Pickman, obviously."

James refuses to rise to the bait, if bait it is, and changes tack. "Cameron? Remember he said he was going to 'do' someone."

"Giselle's father is a more likely candidate. I can't see little Cammo getting blood on his hands, can you?"

"No, you're right. But Daddy is a serious contender." James furrows his brow, thinking. "Hypatia and David seem to be cooking up something. I overheard her ask him if he was going to do something about Bishop."

Robbie gnaws on his bottom lip. "I overheard something like that, too. What would that be about?"

"Maybe we should ask them."

Robbie shakes his head. "Innocent will never let us in on the interviews. Anything more from Forensics?"

"I didn't see any new reports when I was in the library, but it's a bit early yet."

They are so focused, they don't hear the door from the house open until it is too late.

"_What are you two doing out here?_ This has all the hallmarks of an independent investigation, which it had better not be!" The Chief Super swoops down on them, grabbing each one by an arm. "DI Glover is looking for you, seems you're the only two he hasn't interviewed yet."

But her attention is distracted when, just visible past the side of the house, a police car pulls up to the front. "And him," she adds.

"Who's that, Ma'am?" Lewis is polite.

"Alec Pickman. Someone said they saw him arguing with Walter at Laura's house, and I ordered him to be picked up. I don't suppose you saw anything like that when you were at Laura's, Sergeant?"

"Arguing, no Ma'am," he answers carefully.

Lewis takes a breath. "Look, Ma'am, I'm sorry if we were hard to find, it didn't occur to me that we'd be questioned. We'll go in right away, isn't that right, Sergeant?"

Hathaway nods in agreement, not sure where Lewis is going with this kowtowing. But Innocent smiles at his acquiescence. "Thank you. Sorry if I came flying at you just now."

Then Lewis plays his card. "Ma'am, James and I overheard a couple snatches of conversation . . . I wonder if it would be alright for us to ask a couple questions of the persons involved. If we learn anything, we'd be quick to pass it on to DI Glover. It's only, well, we don't know if it's something or nothing at this point."

She studies him a moment. Then, "Alright Lewis, but don't be keeping things to yourself, understood?"

"Ma'am."

"And James, whatever happened to the side of your head? Looks like you got hit with a rock."

Hathaway touches the abrasions left by Lewis's fist. "Yeah, a sort of a rock—a fossil, to be specific."

She frowns and turns away. She doesn't see Lewis's eyes roll.


	7. Chapter 7

Lewis watches as a couple of PCs handle Pickman, trying to find a place to question him.

"They won't get much out of him, he's absolutely mortal by now."

"Aren't we all?" James looks a bit baffled.

"Mortal, seriously drunk." Lewis sounds a little cross.

"Is that some Geordie word, or what?" But Lewis only frowns at the ribbing.

"Inspector! Tell your filth to let me go, I dunno anythin' . . . 'bout anythin'." Pickman is waving his hand at Lewis from across the room. He can barely stay upright.

Lewis stares at him. "I believe you're right about that, Mister Pickman. But it doesn't mean you haven't committed a crime."

He turns away so Pickman is no longer in his sight. "C'mon, Sergeant, let's have a word with Miss Hypatia Banfield-Knight."

They find a bedroom that has space for a few chairs and they lead her in and sit her down. After the basic questions about who she is and what she did tonight, Hathaway leans forward.

"You didn't like Walter Bishop, did you?"

"He was alright."

"He was arrogant and he couldn't keep his hands to himself. You call that 'alright'?"

She shrugs. "They're all arrogant, those music dons."

Lewis cuts in. "Well, I mean, Walter Bishop, he's one of the best, isn't he? Has a right to be arrogant, if you ask me."

She says nothing, but her look clearly indicates she would _not_ ask Lewis his opinion of anything.

"Did he try it on with you?" Hathaway again.

"No." She's beginning to sound surly.

"Did you want him to?" Very insinuating.

"_No!_"

Lewis now, his tone gentle and understanding. "Aw, come on, Miss Banfield-Knight. He was all over you when you were trying to play that—what was it? _Eritaña_? I'm not even sure how you could play with him sitting so close. But it was wonderful," he adds.

Hathaway's eyes widen a little when Lewis pronounces it correctly.

She says nothing.

Hathaway tries a new approach. "Where did you go when the performance at Doctor Hobson's house was over?"

"I came here."

"Directly?"

"Yes, I came straight here."

Lewis looks like he doesn't understand something. "Alone? I mean, you said, '_I_ came here.' You weren't with David?"

Her eyes snap up. "I meant 'we'; David was with me. _We_ came here. Together."

"Ah, that makes more sense. Did you walk?"

"Yes." She swallows, as though something is stuck in her throat.

Hathaway's turn. "Did anyone else see you walking?"

"They may have done, I don't know." Still wary.

"And you didn't see or hear anything unusual, anyone creeping around Doctor Hobson's house or garden, perhaps?" Lewis's turn.

She relaxes a little. "No."

"Has Walter Bishop ever touched you inappropriately?"

She meets the inspector's eyes squarely. "No."

Lewis checks Hathaway's eyes for agreement. "Alright, Miss Banfield-Knight. I think that's all for now."

They let her out and immediately lead David Cleveland in, so that there is no chance of conversation between the two.

Lewis begins this one. "Thank you for your time, Mister Cleveland, this shouldn't take long."

He's confrontational. "Why are you singling us out?"

"Just routine questions, Sir." Lewis can see instantly that David likes being called "Sir."

"Hypatia Banfield-Knight is your girlfriend?"

"Yeah."

"Have you been in the relationship long?"

"Almost three years," he says, with undisguised pride, and on cue, Lewis raises his eyebrows in appreciation.

"You're a lucky man, she's a beautiful woman."

David assesses him to see if there's any challenge, but he soon decides none was intended.

"Well, lucky, yeah."

The inspector looks knowingly, encouraging a confidence. "Ah. A bit cold-hearted at times? She can be a handful, can't she?"

The young man raises both eyebrows in acknowledgment.

"Can hold her own in an argument?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Probably even likes to pick fights, sometimes?"

"Sometimes."

Now Lewis's tone turns serious, like a concerned father. "She'd picked one with Walter Bishop, hadn't she? What was that about, David?"

For a moment, it seems that he won't answer. He stares at the floor, sliding his toe back and forth across the carpet.

"It was the graduate studies program. She's the best player at uni. But they didn't admit her for graduate studies. She blames Bishop for that. I dunno if it was his fault or not. But she certainly thinks so."

"Enough to kill him?"

"_What?_ Don't be daft!"

Lewis says nothing in response, but only looks sad.

Hathaway takes over the questioning. "Where did you go when you left Doctor Hobson's house?

"I went straight to the Stillmans' house."

"Well, that's interesting. Hypatia said the same thing. _Exactly_ the same thing."

"Yeah? So? It's what we did."

"Together?"

"Yeah."

Lewis leans in now. "Funny thing is, David, we have a witness who says otherwise."

Hathaway's eyes flick over to Lewis for an instant. They're not supposed to lie outright when interviewing suspects. But he trusts Lewis's instincts.

David says nothing, chewing his lip. Lewis leans back again. "But what I can't figure out is if she's protecting you, or you're protecting her."

Hathaway leans forward sharply, getting right into David's face. "Did you kill him, David?"

"_No!_"

Only an inch between their noses, Hathaway drops his voice to an icy whisper. "Then it must have been _her_."

David swallows. "She wouldn't. She _couldn't_."

"Couldn't she? Cold-hearted, I think you agreed with that. You wouldn't be trying so hard to protect her if you didn't think she was capable, isn't that right?" When David refuses to answer, Hathaway draws himself up as though he's going to shout the last question at him. But instead, he settles back and looks over at Lewis.

"I think we're done."

The two detectives get up and walk out of the room. Lewis heads for the drinks table and pours a small cognac. Then he turns to his sergeant.

"Now what?" He knocks back the drink in one gulp, and sucks in air after it to cool the heat.

"Well, who's still in the running?"

Lewis ticks off on his fingers. "Hypatia. Alec. Marietta. Claire. Cameron. David." He thinks a moment. "Who interviewed Giselle's father, what's his name?"

"Millard. Millard Rouche."

Lewis raises one eyebrow. "No Mickey or Bob among these people, is there?"

James just makes a face. He doesn't point out that Lewis is omitting a certain female suspect from the list.

"What was his story?"

"They haven't talked to him yet. He never showed up here after Hobson's."

"He's a bit of a frightener, isn't he? The way he reacted when he overheard the things Cameron said to Giselle."

"He may have overheard more than that." Hathaway explains about hearing the two teenagers' conversation when he'd been in Hobson's bathroom, and how Giselle's comment that Bishop was a beast, taken out of context, might lead to all the wrong conclusions.

Lewis considers this answer for a moment or two. "Interesting, him leaving his daughter to the hounds here, no daddy for protection. I put him at the top of the list. David and Cameron are no-goes, y'think?"

"Nah, I don't see either of them as our killer. Don't have much faith in Claire or Marietta, either, truth be told."

"Well, that narrows it right down."

"I wonder if we can get Mister Pickman to make any sense."

Innocent suddenly looms up behind them. "I wouldn't count on it. When they tried to question him, he sang the chorus of "Country Roads" and then urinated on PC Hiller. I think he's passed out now for good in one of the bedrooms. Anyway, Sergeant, DI Glover would like to ask you a few questions." She points toward the library.

Rolling his eyes, Hathaway heads in the direction indicated, with Innocent right behind him.

* * *

><p>Left on his own, Lewis decides some more questioning wouldn't be out of line. After all, he never specified to Innocent whom they wanted to interview, and they'd both overheard the conversations of several people.<p>

"Miss Rouche, isn't it? Inspector Lewis. May I have a word?" Lewis directs her toward a quiet corner of the living room.

She sits, sulkily.

"We've heard from several witnesses that Professor Bishop . . . well, let's say he had trouble keeping his hands to himself. Would you agree with that?"

"He liked a bit of skirt, yeah. The younger, the better."

Lewis raises his eyebrows, interested. "Did he ever touch _you_ inappropriately?"

She scowls. "No. But he wanted to."

"What makes you say that?"

"Cammo—Cameron, my boyfriend, he told me that."

"And you believed him?"

"Yeah. Everyone knows Prof Bishop is on the pull twenty-four-seven."

"And yet, it's my understanding that it was _you_ who tried to touch _him_ inappropriately, and he was rather rough in rejecting you."

Her eyes snap up, angry at what she thinks can only be Cameron's betrayal.

"Have you ever seen him touch _anyone_ inappropriately?"

"Well, no. But he'd be careful, wouldn't he?"

"Ever known anyone personally who was a victim of his behavior?"

She thinks. "No," she answers slowly.

The inspector shifts his position, and takes a new tone.

"How does your father feel about Cameron?"

"Ugh, Daddy doesn't like me to be with anyone. Doesn't like to admit I'm not a little girl any more."

"Has he threatened Cameron?"

"Yeah, Cam's pretty scared of him."

"Do you think he would hurt Cameron?"

She answers without hesitation. "Oh, yeah, definitely."

"You sound very sure."

"He broke the arm of my last boyfriend."

Lewis leans forward, all concern and caring. "Giselle, some of the things Cameron's told you about Professor Bishop . . . what if your father overheard them?"

Her eyes widen and her mouth drops open a little. "He'd be furious." She's almost whispering.

"Furious enough to kill him?"

She shakes her head, but more in dismay than denial. "I don't know. He gets really angry sometimes."

"Have you seen him at all after the concert at Doctor Hobson's house?"

"No." Lewis can see she's disturbed by the thought of what might have happened.

"Miss Rouche, I'm sorry if I've upset you. We don't know that your father overheard anything or that he would have acted on it, even if he had, alright? I don't have any more questions, but you and Cameron had best stay here for now."

She nods, and goes to find Cameron. Lewis has another short cognac. It doesn't seem to be affecting him yet, and it's helping him keep from thinking about what might have happened at Laura's house.

Suddenly, Lewis hears shouting, and spots the Chief Super hurrying toward the library. She flings open the door. Past her, he can see PCs holding back Hathaway and Glover, who look as though they were about to come to blows.

"What on earth is going on in here?" Innocent is livid. Robbie steals up behind her, managing to slip in before the library door is shut again.

Innocent points to Glover. "You first." The PCs holding Glover release him. But those restraining James stay where they are.

"I think we have our murderer, Ma'am," he nods toward James. Lewis rolls his eyes. He hadn't been serious when he predicted this moment, yet it has come nonetheless.

"Really. Sergeant Hathaway, our killer. Do explain." The skepticism drips from her voice.

Glover stands very straight, almost at attention. "I could tell Hobson wasn't telling the truth about what happened at her house. Probably didn't want DI Lewis to know." He glances in Lewis's direction, and immediately wishes he hadn't. The sparks from Robbie's eyes make him stammer. "Sh-she was protecting someone, I could tell. Then when I questioned Sergeant Hathaway, I noticed he has this very fresh contusion on his head, for which he would not provide a satisfactory explanation. I'd say the reason is because he found Walter Bishop trying it on with Laura Hobson. And feeling he needed to protect his inspector's honor, Hathaway dragged him outside, Bishop hit him, and Hathaway knocked him on the head and then strangled him with the wire." He looks smug.

"I see. Anything else?"

"Yes, Ma'am. We also found drugs on him." Even more smug now, he holds up an evidence bag with a marijuana joint inside.

Her eyes narrow, and she turns to James.

"Care to explain, Sergeant?"

Looking for all the world as sulky as the teenagers from whom he'd taken the joint, Hathaway chafes at the officers holding his arms. But Innocent does not order them to let go.

"I took it from Cameron Priestley earlier this evening. I meant to flush it away but forgot about it."

"Fine, I think that excuses you from a misdemeanor charge. But what I'd really like to hear is your defense to the murder accusation."

Hathaway exhales loudly. "I can't defend it very well, because I have no alibi for the time of death. However, I will state unequivocally that I never saw anyone with Laura Hobson after the concert, and I was not in a fight with anyone. I have no motive to kill Walter Bishop, and there's no blood on my clothes."

"Then who hit you?"

He hesitates, glancing over at Lewis.

"DI Lewis gave me this injury earlier when I wasn't being entirely forthright with him."

Innocent's eyebrows—and several others in the room—rise in surprise. She turns toward Robbie, questioningly.

He casts his eyes down. "It's true, Ma'am. I'm afraid I lost me temper."

"And have you since found it?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Good." She straightens. "I'd like everyone out of the room except for DI Lewis, DI Glover, and DS Hathaway. _Now_."

Officers scramble to follow her order and in seconds only the four detectives remain in the room.

"DI Glover, this is a very serious charge you're making, against one of my finest detectives. Yet there seems to be very little evidentiary support for it. How do you explain the lack of blood on his clothing?"

"He must have worn a scene-of-crime suit. No doubt Hobson has some at her house."

Innocent shakes her head. But before she can say anything, there's a knock at the door. When she opens it, a WPC stands there with a sheet of paper in her hand.

"Report from Forensics, Ma'am." Noting the Chief Super's slightly puzzled expression, she adds, "The Stillmans are letting us use their fax machine. Reports are starting to come in now." She hands over the report. "Footprints from the locus. Two different sets, one is a men's size eight, matches the victim, and one is a men's size nine and a half."

Innocent looks down at Hathaway's feet.

"Thirteen," he states, smiling smugly. "Not even close."

She glares at Glover, who looks as though he wishes he were invisible. "Get out of here, Inspector, and find the real killer."

As soon as the door closes behind him, she turns to the two remaining detectives.

"Have you boys found out anything?"

Hathaway explains their investigation so far.

"Millard Rouche, let's get him picked up. But aren't you forgetting someone? After all, the body was found in _Laura Hobson's_ garden." She checks their expressions at her emphasis, and continues. "I know you were with her the whole time, Hathaway, but there may be some merit to DI Glover's idea that perhaps the two of you conspired together to commit the deed and then alibi each other. I've been told Doctor Hobson's not wearing the same clothes she was earlier."

Lewis and Hathaway share a look. Then Lewis straightens. "With your permission, Ma'am, I'd like to get to the bottom of that theory."

She raises both eyebrows. "No conflict of interest?"

Lewis tosses a glance at James, shaking his head. "Absolutely not, Ma'am. I'd throw him under the bus any day."

She gives him one of her don't-mess-with-me frowns. "You know what I mean. Let me just say, every report you two generate regarding this case will be viewed with a healthy dose of skepticism." She gives them a warning look, and heads out of the library. "Inspector Glover! We need to figure out whom we can send home and who has to stay. Denise, thanks so much for being so gracious about this," she adds as an aside.

Denise smiles with a bit of wry amusement and turns to George. "You know, this is even more entertaining than a house full of drunken Russians." George nods in agreement, solemnly.


	8. Chapter 8

Robbie takes a deep breath and turns to James. "We've got to get Laura to tell us what really happened." To James, he suddenly looks older, more tired, with a grayish pallor. "You don't suppose—" his expression warns James to be merciful, whatever response is required "—she's protecting Alec, do you?" His eyes swing up to Hathaway's, and there is an infinite sadness there. "I mean, she must be protecting someone. And Walter's dead, so why protect him?"

Hathaway swallows. "Well, she could be protecting Claire, if it _was_ Walter." Lewis looks disbelieving, knowing James isn't saying what he thinks. James knows it isn't flying either, and he restarts.

"To be honest, Sir . . . I think she's trying to protect _you_."

"_Me?_ Whatever from?"

"From knowledge of whatever happened to her. A desire to extract vengeance from whomever did it. Something like that."

"Why the hell would she do that? I'm a policeman, finding out what happened is what I do!"

Hathaway studies the older man, knowing he can't see how he's affected by this. "I get the feeling she'll never tell you voluntarily. Look, I have an idea, Sir. It's a bit underhanded, though." And he begins to explain his plan.

* * *

><p>Hathaway finds Laura scanning the shelves and shelves of CDs the Stillmans have. "Doctor? We need to talk." James looks steadily at Laura. And he can tell she's just as steadily avoiding looking at him.<p>

"Come on, let's go outside where it's quiet." He takes her by the arm, but she shakes him off, and walks toward the door by herself without protest. Once they're outside, she stands at the edge of the paving stones, as though concentrating on the flowers planted there. But it is dark, and the flowers can't be seen. The darkness also conceals a third person, just around the corner of the house, leaning against the wall. Listening.

"Doctor Hobson. Just a few minutes ago, I was accused of murder. The reasoning for this focused on the absence of any explanation about what happened at your house after the concert. Now, you know something you're not telling, and it's gotten to the point where it's interfering with our investigation. So my question for you is, to whom do you want to give your _real_ statement?" He lights a cigarette and inhales deeply. "Do you want to give it to Lewis?"

She shakes her head as though she cannot stop. "No, James. No, no, no." She sits, and her head sinks into her hands.

Hathaway sits, too, puts one hand out, and lays it on hers, tentatively. "If you don't want to talk to him, Doctor, you're going to have to talk to me. Or, someone who wasn't here at all tonight, one of the WPCs?" He sucks on his cigarette. "It's your choice."

She stares at him for two full minutes without saying anything. Then she begins to explain without preamble.

"Everyone had left, or so I thought." She stares at him, then blinks. "Could I have a cigarette?"

He passes one over and flicks his lighter, cupping the end of hers until it catches, and then holding on to her hand for a quarter second after that.

She inhales deeply, savoring the burn. "Alec came back. Well, I think he'd never left the house."

James knows it's up to him to prompt her to continue the story. "He wanted something from you."

She snorts, quietly. "He always has." She swallows, and Hathaway wishes he had some electronic means to record what's coming next; he knows it will be worthy of an evidentiary record.

Laura closes her eyes, as though doing so means what happened has nothing to do with her in the present. She inhales, lets out the smoke, and continues her tale.

"Alec found me in the kitchen. Didn't say anything. He grabbed my wrists, held both hands together. He pressed himself against me, letting me know how strong he was, how futile it would be to fight against him.

"I wanted to resist him, but . . ." she's trying not to cry now, "I just wasn't strong enough."

She stares deeply into Hathaway's eyes. "I knew he was going to rape me, James, and I had no way of stopping him. I couldn't keep him from . . ." She swallows hard, and starts again. "He tore my blouse and pulled down my trousers and knickers. Then he undid his own trousers." She stops here, drawing on the cigarette.

"Was he erect?"

"Yes."

She inhales through the fag again, holding the smoke in for a second before blowing it out. And she closes her eyes for a full second. "He put two fingers inside me. He was taunting me, saying things like he knew I always wanted him, that this was what I was made for, that sort of rubbish. I tried to fight him, but he was too strong."

"He raped you." James's voice is quiet, a soothing caress.

"_No_." Hathaway is taken aback by the vehemence of her tone.

Her eyes are locked on his, and she knows any untruth by her will flare like a laser. "_What happened, Laura?_"

She fingers the cigarette with agitation. "Walter came in. I think he was still in the house somewhere, I'd forgotten about him, to tell the truth. He pulled Alec off me and hit him. I've never seen Walter so angry. Then he grabbed Alec with both hands and marched him outside, out in the garden. I slammed the door shut after them and locked it, I was so afraid Alec would come back in. It didn't even occur to me that the front wasn't locked." She smiles wanly at her own foolishness. "And I went up to my bedroom. The next thing I knew, you were calling me. I pulled my trousers back up and fastened them best I could, and came downstairs. The rest, you know." She's fighting tears now, her breathing choked and staggered.

"You never saw them after they went outside?"

"No."

"Did you tell Inspector Lewis any of this?"

"I can't tell him. He wouldn't be able . . . He couldn't bear to think of me like that. And I couldn't bear him to be disappointed in me. I should have fought harder, should have screamed."

"Why would he be disappointed?"

"Because . . ." her voice is a whisper. "Because he loves me." She rocks back and forth in her chair. "Please don't tell him." James can barely hear her, but he knows he's heard correctly.

"No, no, don't worry. It's not your fault, Laura." It seems a stupid thing to say, _don't worry_.

"He loves me, he loves me," she continues, sobbing now. "He doesn't deserve this."

She collapses into shuddering, and Hathaway reaches for her, enfolding her in his arms. He pats her back, telling her it's alright, and when her sobs subside, he simply holds her. Then he inhales, knowing he has just taken on one huge piece of sensitive, personal, dangerous information.

But he has not taken it on alone. Hidden in the dark, Lewis has heard every word.

* * *

><p>After James leads Laura back into the house, Lewis leans his back against the bricks and stares out at the darkness. <em>Truth<em>. There it was. He'd always gotten a feeling of resolution when he at last found the truth about something. But this time, it's like stepping off a platform beyond which he can see nothing. It might just be a small step, or maybe there is nothing there at all, and he'll be in free-fall, sinking through the air forever. Or worse, until he hits bottom, the way he had when Val died.

_Or maybe he'll find that since that time, he's learned how to fly_. He inhales, and pushes himself off the wall. It surprises him a little to find the ground is solid beneath his feet. He sees a flashing blue light approaching from up the street, and a police car pulls to a stop in front of the house. _Neighbors are getting quite a show tonight_, he thinks. And he heads for the door.

As he pours another cognac, he senses someone at his elbow. It's Hathaway, his eyes looking tired and sad.

"She's erm, in the toilet, putting herself back together." He studies the older man. "I'm sorry, Sir, I didn't know what she was going to say."

Lewis just nods a little. "I know." He sighs. "But if you know what _I'm_ going to say, be sure to tell me, okay?" His small smile is returned in kind.

They look up as the front door opens, and a PC hurries inside. "Chief Superintendent? DI Glover?" The two named officers are there in a moment. "We've taken Mister Rouche down to the station, Ma'am. He wasn't fit to bring here. Pretty wild-eyed, and well, lots of blood on him. I think we got 'im alright."

* * *

><p>Outside the Stillmans' house, where cleanup is well underway, two figures stand on the front walk, looking at each other tentatively.<p>

His eyes steadily on her, Lewis approaches Laura, a wry smile on his lips.

"It's been quite a night."

She gives a small snort of agreement.

He stands very close and keeps his voice low. "All that amazing music. It was something, wasn't it? So beautiful."

"Jean tells me there were some beautiful things paying you rather a lot of attention as well." Her eyes twinkle teasingly.

He twists an amused smile. "Guilty." Then he looks into her eyes. "But I didn't enjoy it very much. Something Professor Gold said made me think. She told me how happy I could be if I would only give myself the chance."

"Oh? She's a wise woman."

"And I think I finally understand what I need to do to take that chance."

She doesn't answer, staring at the pavement.

"Walk you home?" He smiles shyly. Laura pauses a moment, then gives a small smile in response.

"I should warn you, I'm nervous about being all alone in the house."

"That's the sweetest music I've heard all night." He holds his arm out so she can take it, and together they walk steadily into the darkness.


End file.
